


Monsters in the Dark

by My_Name_is_not_my_Own



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Absent Parents, Abusive Neil Hargrove, Billy Hargrove Needs Help, Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Billy Hargrove Redemption, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Hurt Billy Hargrove, Hurt Steve Harrington, Maxine "Max" Mayfield Needs a Hug, Mental Health Issues, Not Canon Compliant, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Season/Series 02, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Abuse, Slow Burn, Steve Harrington Has Nightmares, Steve Harrington Needs Love, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, please mind the tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2020-11-28 11:42:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 56,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20965997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Name_is_not_my_Own/pseuds/My_Name_is_not_my_Own
Summary: “Fuck, Harrington. What the hell are you doing with that thing?”It’s the goddamn bat full of nails that Max had threatened him with—that she’d almost castrated him with, really. And Harrington has it. Harrington’s wielding it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like the thing is just another appendage to him.Harrington’s wide eyes are glassy and desperate as he looks up at Billy. “There are monsters in the dark.”Billy scoffs. Monsters. Right.“Yeah,” the word is like acid on his tongue, hot and bitter, “and some of them are human.”(Or: Steve and Billy get paired up for an English project and begin stumbling down a long, unwieldy path toward self-discovery as they deal with their own personal baggage and learn how to survive, cope, and recover in the aftermath of trauma.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this work is not canon-compliant (especially when it comes to season 3). I guess we could call this a post-season 2 fic and go from there? We'll see. I've also probably manipulated character ages. The teens may have been aged down slightly and the kids may have been aged up a bit. Characters are probably OOC. 
> 
> This is my first fanfic in a very, very long time, and so I'm just trying to have fun with it while working some stuff out. Really, I'm still getting back into the groove of this writing thing. This is a slow burn. Things probably won't get too heavy until later on, but I make no promises on that, so please, please mind the tags and take care of yourselves.
> 
> Enjoy!

Steve Harrington sleeps with his bat of nails tucked under his bed. Ready and waiting. Well, not under _his_ bed. Usually it’s either under his parents’ bed or the bed in the guestroom. When those rooms are empty, anyway. Occasionally, it’s the couch. He doesn’t sleep in _his_ bed anymore. Not that anyone’s ever really there to notice that.

But the bat of nails goes with him at night, wherever he winds up. Because if there’s one thing that he’s learned, especially recently, it’s that the monsters come out at night. And he has to be prepared for that shit.

It comforts him to know that the bat is there. To know that it’s just a quick reach away if he needs it. _If_… he scoffs a bit at that. It’s more likely _when. _He k_nows_ he’s going to need it again. He just isn’t _sure_ about the when of it all.

Right now, the silence of his own house is deafening. It unnerves him, but it’s already past two in the morning, and he feels like, at this point, noise of any kind might attract something less than…savory. Something out of this world, maybe. Something monstrous. Silence is better than the noise of one person shuffling around a big, empty house, he thinks. Or a lot of noise. That might be better, too. But he’s not into the party scene anymore.

He’s come to believe that, after a certain point in the night, even if he can’t sleep, he needs to keep quiet and stay prepared. Steve can’t really say that this impulse to stay quiet and still and prepared, with a bat full of nails within arm’s reach, while he waits the night out in his empty house is as recent as his knowledge of the Upside Down is, but he likes to at least pretend that the impulse has stemmed from his escapades with that creepy ass place and the creepy ass things the kids call the Shadow Monster or the Demogorgon or the Mind Flayer or whatever the hell’s sprouted from the depths of that freakish hell dimension now…oh, and those goddamn demodogs.

The knowledge of all of that nightmare fodder certainly makes the nights worse, but he also knows that his nights have never been all that great to begin with.

The silence, while eerie and unnerving, is still better than the bloodcurdling shrieks of demodogs. That doesn’t keep him from shaking and itching to clutch the bat of nails with his calloused fingers on the chance that the shadows might start moving, though. Because, really, he’s never been good with the silence or the dark, and he’s certainly not great with the _monsters_ aspect of it all, but that’s not the point.

The point is survival. And he’s going to survive his nights—hope that they don’t kill him—because he has _responsibilities_ now. Kids to look after. He might be shit at everything else, but he’s discovered recently that he’s a damn good babysitter, and he’s determined to hold onto that for as long as he can.

And, every so often, Hawkins and the rest of the world need saving. And, really, who else is going to do it other than his band of merry, messed up kids, a grumpy old police chief, and a constantly fretting mother? The_ government_? If Steve weren’t trying so hard to stay quiet, he might snort at the thought. So, he sleeps with the bat of nails always nearby.

Just in case.

He’s camping out on the couch tonight because he can’t bring himself to venture up the stairs to his parents’ empty bedroom or the empty guestroom in the dark, but he also can’t bring himself to turn the lights on so as to make that possible transition easier.

He’d stared at his English homework, still splayed out on the coffee table, for too long. So long that he lost track of time. He turned off the lights once he realized and now it’s too late to turn them back on just so that he can sleep in a bed instead of on the couch.

He doesn’t want anything to know that he’s here. Turning on the lights is a bad idea, he thinks. But he also considers that he’s just freaking out over nothing.

_As if anything’s going to come after you_, his mind taunts._ Look at you, freaking out as if you’re important. As if you matter. Freaking out as if something’s going to bother with _you. _You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington. _

Steve finds himself gripped with that last thought. Can’t get it out of his head. He’s heard it often enough, really. From Nancy. From his teachers. From his parents. Himself. And he knows he is. He _knows. _Of course he is. He’s sleeping on the couch, afraid to move or make a sound or _turn on a fucking light_, with a bat full of nails on the floor waiting for him, just in case something bad happens. What else could he be?

He tries to convince himself that this nightly routine he’s carved out doesn’t make him an idiot. That it makes him prepared—that it makes him _safe. _That it keeps him alive. But maybe that’s not actually true.

_You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington. _

He repeats this to himself, over and over and over, until it becomes the mantra that lulls him to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and for the kudos! It helps me know that I'm not just sending this off into the void. :)
> 
> Enjoy, but also mind the tags and take care of yourselves.

Billy Hargrove cuts the engine of his Camaro, looks out at the sea of teenagers wading through the campus parking lot, and sighs. He can’t really say that he’s looking forward to yet another day at this soul-sucking high school, but he _can_ say that he’s grown tired of telling himself that he’s only stuck here until he graduates and turns eighteen.

When they first moved, those thoughts fueled him. Knowing that he wouldn’t be stuck here forever, that he could skip out on this dumb little town and book it back to California the second he became of legal age, was something he could hang onto.

Now, though, as the days pass, those thoughts are tinged with a fatigue he finds both frustrating and difficult to stifle. The longer he stays here, the longer he’s under Neil’s oppressive thumb, the more he thinks he may not make it out of this town, after all. Sometimes he feels like he won’t even make it to graduation, let alone his eighteenth birthday.

He turns to Maxine, who’s in the passenger’s seat, and he can just tell that the redheaded little snot is itching to get as far away from him as possible. He fights the urge to laugh at her. According to his father—to _Neil—_and to Susan, he and this little brat are family now. The least he can do is pretend to play the part. Take _responsibility_ for her well-being. Be _respectable._

He knows for a fact that Max has no desire for him to play the protective older brother—hell, she drugged him up and threatened him with a bat full of nails, for Christ’s sake. He’s left her alone since then. Mostly. But he knows that he’s going to have to bring up her budding relationship with the Sinclair kid again at some point. She has to know that she can’t just…she has to know that it can’t work.

Somehow, he’s going to have to get it through her thick skull that pursuing this _fling _is, at best, a waste of time and, at worst, dangerous. If Neil finds out… but Billy’s not going to bother with that today, the memory of the tranquilizer and that fucking nail bat still fresh in his mind and a more than effective deterrent. Maybe he’ll try again tomorrow. Or next week.

Or next month.

He knows he can’t avoid this topic forever though, and he dreads the possibility of this _thing_ she has with Sinclair going on long enough for it to register with Neil. _Definitely_ can’t let it come to that.

Instead of getting into any of that now, he just growls, “get out.”

Max fumbles with her backpack for a second before her hand flies to the door handle. She’s barely opened it when he says, “wait. Remember, no arcade after school. You’re still grounded for sneaking out with those little delinquents you’ve decided to make friends with. So, meet me out here right after your last bell. And don’t you fucking dare be late.”

_Grounded. _What a novel concept _that _had been for Neil. The man never grounds _Billy_. No, he always prefers lessons that involve a belt or a fist when it comes to Billy. But Maxine—she just gets _grounded. _Billy presses down the bubble of resentment and jealousy that begins to rise up inside of him like bile.

It’s_ better_ for her to get grounded. It’s _good_ that Susan still has a say in how to discipline Maxine. Honestly, Billy’s not quite sure what he would do if he came home to Neil disciplining Max the same way the man disciplines Billy.

As much as Billy can’t stand the kid most of the time, she’s still just a kid. And she’s _kind of _family, he supposes. Enough so that he’s not sure he could stomach Neil turning his fists or his belts toward her. That’s why Billy still has to talk to her about the Sinclair kid.

At some point.

Billy can tell that Max is struggling not to roll her eyes when he reminds her that she’s grounded and he knows that she can tell that he’s struggling not to reach out and grab her arm for emphasis. He grabs his carton of cigarettes from the dashboard and slips one out instead. He lifts it up to his mouth and grips one end with his teeth. The cigarette hangs from his lips as he turns back to her and lifts an eyebrow, motioning for her to leave. “The hell I just say?”

“Whatever,” she mutters as she moves out of the car and slams the door behind her.

Billy watches her walk off to join a couple of her weirdo friends who are, conveniently, waiting for her. The tall, pale one glances at him with a hard expression and he almost snorts at how ludicrous it is that a thirteen or fourteen year old kid might be trying to give _him _a look of warning.

He’s actually not sure what the kid—Mike, is it?—is trying to communicate, but he’s not going to waste any brain cells in trying to figure that out. What does he care about it, anyway?

God, he’s _still_ furious that they had to uproot their lives in California for this shit town in bum-fuck Indiana where everyone looks at him like he’s a walking cliché.

Like they take one glance at his long blond curls and his hard blue eyes and the piercing on his ear and his practiced swagger and expect him to sleep around or start fights.

The teachers look at him like he’s trouble. The housewives look at him like he’s an enticing snack.

And Billy’s happy to indulge in those fantasies considering it’s what’s expected of him. Happy to flirt with the ladies. _Whores_, Neil tells him. Happy to offer snide remarks in class so that the teachers can confirm their own assumptions. At least until they grade his next test or paper and try to get through to him about _potential. _He’s happy to pick fights with or make suggestive comments to his peers, depending on his own mood.

Happy to drive someone’s face into the mud if he fancies it.

It’s not like he’d be lying if he said that, every time one of the fuckers in this town looks his way like they _know _him or like they’re _judging _him, he has the urge to pummel their face into the pavement like he did with Steve “The Hair” Harrington.

A twinge of something swells inside of him, but he can’t understand what it means. Harrington got what he deserved. The guy _lied _to him about Max’s whereabouts after he found her and her weirdo friends holed up in a stranger’s house. The whole situation felt _wrong. _Made his skin crawl. What the hell was he _supposed_ to think?

Now he understands that Harrington is a babysitter of sorts, constantly watching out for and hanging out with those kids even though, at this point, they’re all probably too old to still have a babysitter hanging around. And it’s_ still _weird.

And it’s not like Harrington was _Max’s_ babysitter. Susan and Neil didn’t even know where she was that night. They sent Billy to find her. He couldn’t not go out searching for the little brat after Neil threatened him.

So, the least that stupid pretty boy could’ve done was fess up.

Though Billy’s still not sure he understands what was going on in that house. It was all just…bizarre. And wrong. And he was too drugged up, thanks to Max, to really understand any of it. And if he knew anything, if he _knows _anything, it’s that Steve fucking Harrington deserved what he got.

Billy’s still bitter just thinking about all of it when he walks into his last class. English. His eyes sweep the room and land on a very noticeable and stylized mop of dark hair. Well, _speak of the devil himself_.

Honestly, with how much Billy has kept up with Harrington and his life and his reputation—or, _old_ reputation—as King, he probably should have realized that they don’t just share the basketball court—they share an English class too.

But, he doesn’t really remember seeing much of Harrington in this class. Billy tries not to miss much school. School is an escape. Keeps him out of the house and away from Neil, just like basketball does. Just like all his dates with women he can barely remember the names of do. And if there’s anything that Billy likes to be, it’s out of the house.

Billy shoves all of that aside as he plops down into a seat and leans back, arms folded, waiting for the lesson to begin.

“Alright class, I’ve decided to pair you up and assign each pair a special project…”

The threads of something like dread start to twist in Billy’s stomach. He can just _sense _where this is heading. Just knows that, whether it’s because she’s overworked or just lazy, she’s going to go down the alphabetical class roster for the pairs. Harrington is bound to be right under Hargrove. That’s the way his life works.

He’s going to be paired with fucking Steve “The Goddamn Hair” Harrington and there’s nothing he can do about it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and for any comments/kudos!!
> 
> Please mind the tags and take care of yourselves.
> 
> Enjoy!

As soon as he hears Hargrove's name following his own, Steve feels like he’s underwater. The noise of the classroom mutes and shifts into an unbearable drone and his vision swims. He stuffs his shaking hands under his desk, hoping that nobody notices the labored hitches in his breath or the sweat starting to form on his forehead.

_Billy Fucking Hargrove. _The guy who beat him up. The guy who _gave him a concussion. _

The guy who is now his English partner for a project they have to work on _outside of school. _

He briefly wonders if he can get a note. Or forge one himself. Something that says, _for the sake of all parties involved, please rearrange these project pairs. This is a matter of public safety. _

For a moment, he clings to the idea that a note like that would actually work. And then he remembers that, as so many have told him, he’s an idiot and there’s absolutely no way that would really work.

Steve is so busy freaking out about the Hargrove being his partner thing, that he’s not paying any attention to the actual assignment, which means he’ll probably have to ask Hargrove, who will be so annoyed at the fact that not only did he get paired up with Steve, but also, Steve has no idea what he’s doing, and he’ll beat him up again. Maybe land Steve in the hospital.

Briefly, Steve thinks that he would rather take on more actual monsters, but he’s not really sure about that either.

Steve barely registers the squeaking of chair legs as Hargrove pulls his desk over. He slumps down next to Steve and blows a blond curl from his face. Hargrove’s blue eyes sweep over Steve in a way that makes him itch. And it certainly doesn’t help that he’s still freaking out. That his hands are still shaking.

“Looks like we’re partners, _amigo_.” Hargrove’s voice is rough with some kind of warning. And even if Steve can’t figure out the details, he can certainly take a hint.

So he just nods.

“Should we make a plan, then?”

Steve nods again, pushes his hands into his jean pockets, and wills the tremors to stop.

“So, are you going to actually participate in this assignment, or do you just want me to do everything myself? Including having this conversation. Cause if you want my A-quality work, you can’t just ride on my coattails for it. I’m not here to just give you the grade lift that you probably _desperately_ need.”

Steve is about to simply nod again until he processes Hargrove’s words. “Wait…you actually _want_ to work on this together?”

“Did I really hit you in the head that hard, dumbass? I just told you, I’m not letting you take any credit unless you contribute. That’s how it works. And fuck, I’ll beat your face in again if you _don’t_ contribute. I’m actually doing well in my classes and would like to keep it that way, thank you.”

“You…want… Wait, you’re a Grade A student?”

Hargrove rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair. “Get with it, Harrington. Let’s smack out a plan for this project. Maybe one that only involves me having to look at your pretty little face once or twice a week.”

“Whatever you want, Hargrove.” Steve prays that the other teen doesn’t register the tremble in his voice. “Can you just…maybe…explain to me what the project _is _first?”

Hargrove blinks once. Twice. Then his cold blue eyes narrow in anger as he leans forward and lays his fist on Steve’s desk. “Are you fucking _kidding _me, Harrington?”

No, Steve is not kidding. But at least he has enough sense not to answer. 

“Were you not paying attention five minutes ago? Maybe I need to smash your face in again to get you back on track, because I swear, if you bring my grade down with this shit, I will _end _you.”

Steve is certain that Hargrove means this. He is also certain that he cannot tell the psychotic teenager who gave him a concussion that he was too busy freaking out about being paired with the psychotic teenager who gave him a concussion to pay attention to the details of the project. When he replies, his voice comes out quiet and tinged with desperation. “Yeah, I…uh, I know. I’m sorry. If you can just tell me what we’re working with, I’ll be…good to go. …Please?”

Hargrove’s blue eyes spark and stare and shift. Steve thinks he could crumble under the pressure. He feels vulnerable under this gaze and he doesn't like it. It's like he's being pulled into a riptide with no way to save himself.

Then Hargrove simply sighs. “Fine. I’ll go over the assignment with you and then we’ll make ourselves a schedule for the next several weeks. And if we have to do this outside of school, then we’re gonna have all our meetings at your house. Got it?”

There’s no room for argument, but Steve wouldn’t argue anyway. He knows—or at least he hopes—that people as angry as Billy Hargrove don’t just come out of the womb that way. He knows—he _thinks—_that they’re usually shaped into being that way.

A need to protect Max from whatever might be going on in that home surges through him, but he shoves it down. She’s assured him that Billy’s been leaving her alone. She talks about her stepfather being a dick, but it’s with more annoyance than fear. Max doesn’t have marks on her that would indicate anything out of the ordinary. Unless she covers them up…

No, Max would tell them if something were wrong. Steve’s sure of that. Well, maybe not sure of it. But he hopes that she would. But…he doesn’t know.

And now his head hurts. And…oh. He still needs to answer Billy.

“Yeah, uh, my house. That’s fine.”

Hargrove rolls up his sleeves and leans onto Steve's desk. “Okay. So, the project. Listen closely Harrington, cause I’m only gonna explain this shit once. We pick one of the assigned books that we haven’t read yet. Then we read it. Then we make a lesson plan, create an activity, and prepare a number of discussion questions. Then we “present” our lesson, activity and discussion questions and all, to the class.”

Steve tries to process this. Including the point of it. “So, then, like, we’re supposed to act like the teacher?"

Hargrove graces him with a smirk. “Yeah, something like that.”

“And this is supposed to help us learn something?”

“Yeah, that seems to be the idea.”

Steve grips the insides of his jean pockets with his fingers because they’re starting to shake again.

_You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington. _

He knows. He knows he is.

He can’t possibly successfully complete a project where _he’s _expected to teach people something. He doesn’t have the skill. He doesn’t have the intelligence. He’s still _learning. _

He’s a student, not a teacher. And not a particularly good one.

He doesn’t quite understand why he can’t simply slouch in the back of the class, do nothing, and wait for high school to finally be over. Maybe he could slouch himself into thin air. Disappear. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about the Upside Down or monsters or Billy fucking Hargrove or this stupid English assignment.

He drifts back to reality when he hears Hargrove spit out his name. “Jesus, Harrington. Maybe you_ do_ need to get your head examined. I asked you, like, five times when we could start.”

Steve’s face reddens and he stares down at his desk. “Whenever.”

“Whenever?” Hargrove bites out, clearly annoyed.

Steve resists the impulse to shrink away. “Yeah, I mean, it’s not like my parents—we don’t—we can work around your schedule. So, when do you want to do this stuff?”

Billy tilts his head like he’s thinking, absently running his right hand up and down part of his left arm. Steve's eyes follow the hand movements and he finds himself staring at the splotchy finger-shaped marks on Hargrove's otherwise tan arm. A question boils up to the tip of his tongue before he swallows it back down.

_None of your business. You’re an idiot. This guy likes to fight._

But Steve knows what fighting marks look like and he knows what monster marks look like and he knows that Billy’s finger-shaped marks are not the fighting kind.

_My stepfather is an asshole. _

Max has told him that a few times now.

His mind drifts back to his earlier thoughts. _People as angry as Billy Hargrove are usually shaped into being that way. _

The proof that someone _molds _Hargrove into being an angry, psychotic bully is right here on Hargrove's skin. In the shape of another man's fingers. 

_What do you care? This is the guy who beat you up. He could’ve killed you. And Max is fine. And she’s the one you actually care about. She’s fine, Hargrove’s an ass, and this is none of your goddamn business. _

Steve feels queasy and unsteady.

Billy casually shoves his sleeve down over the bruises as if nothing is wrong and fixes Steve with a stare that could probably kill if the guy had powers. “Your parents won’t mind us working on a school night?”

Steve huffs at the absolute absurdity of that question. “Uh, no. We’re good to work on this whenever you want.”

"Any curfew to worry about?"

Shaking his head, Steve shifts in his chair and stares at the floor.

“Fine, then. Tuesdays and Thursdays around 7. Your house.”

Steve used to really hate Mondays, but now he thinks that he’s going to hate Tuesdays and Thursdays much more.

“You got it,” he mutters.

At least it's Friday. At least he has the weekend to prepare for this shit. 

At least he has his bat full of nails.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and for any comments/kudos!
> 
> Enjoy, but also mind the tags and take care of yourselves. Things are starting to get a little heavy already...

Billy knows that Maxine is upset when the kid slumps into the passenger’s seat with folded arms and a scowl that scrunches up her entire face.

“Aw, you mad that you can’t hang out with your loser friends this weekend?” Billy quips. He glances up at the rearview mirror and pretends to fuss with his curls. Really, though, he’s using the mirror to study his stepsister.

Her shoulders slouch and she sinks deeper into the leather seat. Her red brows are furrowed and—if he’s not mistaken, her blue eyes are glistening. Like she might cry, even if she’s determined not to. Jesus, she can’t be _that _upset about being grounded. Right?

A tiny flame of anger ignites inside of him. He’s the one who’s just been saddled with _Steve Harrington _for an English partner. He’s the one who has a right to be upset right now.

He doesn’t tell her this because he knows she’ll be unimpressed. Because he knows that she actually _likes _Harrington…for…whatever reason. And then he starts to think about other possible reasons she might be upset.

He wonders if it has something to do with that Sinclair kid. That little flame of anger inside of him starts to grow and the words are out of his mouth before he even thinks about them.

“Did that Sinclair kid do something to upset you? Cause I swear”—

Maxine cuts him off before he can promise to make use of the shovel in his trunk. “_No. _God, it’s not—just leave me alone.”

Billy huffs and turns on the engine. “Whatever you say, runt.”

He pulls out of the school parking lot and, after a moment of thought, turns left. Maxine doesn’t even notice. They always turn right to go home. But apparently she’s so lost in her own thoughts that the wrong turn doesn’t register at all.

It takes Maxine about five minutes to finally realize. He hears her breath hitch, but she doesn’t say anything. Just stares out the window and tries to act casual about the fact that she’s wiping her eyes. Like, if she manages to catch the tears before they start to line her freckled face then she’s not really crying. Billy rolls his eyes at the logic and keeps driving.

After two more minutes, Maxine can’t help herself. “What are you doing? I’m _grounded_, remember? You said this morning that we would be going straight home.”

Billy doesn’t answer as he pulls into a parking space in front of Family Video. He cuts the engine and turns to look at his stepsister. Her wide eyes are tinged red and still glistening with unshed tears. “Well, if you’re going to be stuck at the house all weekend, you might as well have something to do other than homework and shit. Neil and Susan probably won’t be around that much, anyway.”

Her already furrowed brows furrow even more and he watches her mouth open and close, as if she’s trying to find the right words but simply can’t come up with them. “You’re…_renting me movies for the weekend?_”

Disbelief and awe drench each word. Billy opens his door and steps out of the car before he responds. When she finally follows suit, he simply shrugs and fumbles through his pocket for his lighter and a cigarette. “Don’t make a fuss,” he warns. “And no more than three movies, cause I’m not made of bank. Got it? I expect change.”

When he hands her a wad of cash, Maxine tilts her head and searches Billy’s face for the joke, her eyes still wide and glistening. It’s clear that she feels like she might be walking into some sort of trap, but she can’t figure out what it is. Billy’s almost offended by the apparent distrust, but he supposes he can’t really blame her.

“Just don’t take too long. I’ll wait out here.”

She squints up at him for a few more seconds before letting out a jagged sigh and snatching the offered money like he’s going to take it all back at any moment. Slowly, she makes her way into the video store. She glances back once, uncertain and wary, stares at him through the smudged glass, and then swiftly swings back around and moves deeper into the shop with a more confident stride.

Billy lights his cigarette, leans on the hood of his car, and waits.

***

When Billy stumbles out of his car and heads toward the front door of his house after making an appearance at Tommy’s lame-ass house party later that night, a little bit drunk and _very_ high, he instantly knows that he’s about to walk into a fight.

Five feet from the door, he can already hear his father’s yelling. Now he wishes that he’d just snuck back in through his bedroom window. He really doesn’t want to deal with this shit right now.

Billy’s hand hovers over the doorknob. He watches his hand shake and wonders how much pot he smoked.

Enough for his hands to shake like this?

Enough for his entire body to start trembling?

He often wants to pretend that it’s the drugs or the alcohol causing this reaction in him. He often wants to pretend that his shaking, that his body betraying him, has nothing to do with his father. But he never gets the chance to pretend for very long.

Closing his eyes, he leans his forehead on the front door and listens.

“You would think that someone who’s _already _grounded wouldn’t act like such an ungrateful little brat.”

Neil sounds livid and Billy tries to figure out what Max could have done for his father to direct his anger toward her. Susan’s voice, while loud in its own right, comes out soft and gentle compared to Neil’s. Smaller. “She's at a difficult age. She’s just…adjusting. With the move and teenage hormones starting to”—

“_Hormones_? You’re blaming _hormones_? You’re telling me that little bitch is disrespecting me because she’s having a _tough time becoming a teenager_? You know that’s a load of bullshit, Susan.”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean anything by”—

“By what? By slouching and muttering at the dinner table? By picking around her food and not eating a single goddamn thing when I work my ass off to _put _that food on the table to begin with? By screaming at me to leave her alone, storming off, and slamming her door? I ought to unhinge that door and stuff it in the basement. Teach her that privacy is a _privilege. _We’ve been in this town long enough. She should be perfectly well-adjusted. She’s got friends, doesn’t she? And, considering she’s _grounded_, she should be on her fucking best behavior.”

“We can always extend the grounding. And I can talk to her about respecting you at the dinner table.”

Neil’s laugh is cruel and cold. “_Extend _her grounding? Yeah, you’re doing a bang up job disciplining her so far. Let’s just ground her for a bit longer. That’ll do the trick.”

Billy’s hand is now clenched around the doorknob. He opens his eyes and stares at the chipped red paint, breaths shallow and uneven.

“We can take away other privileges. That walkie talkie she uses to talk to other kids. Or…the makeup she’s started buying. Or…her nail polish… Her video games!”

Susan sounds desperate.

Billy hears shuffling and his shoulders tense.

“We tried it your way, Susan. And your way clearly isn’t working. I think it’s time we do this _my_ way.”

Billy recognizes this tone. Low and dangerous. Usually—_always—_directed at him. Never Susan. Never Maxine.

His father’s sharp stomps ring in his ears before they’re drowned out by a nearly shrieking Susan. “What are you doing? You can’t just—you will _not—_I will _not _let you just barge into her bedroom. She said she wasn’t _feeling well._”

The stomps pause and Billy hears Neil snort. “Sick or not, I think it’s about time I teach her about _respect _and _responsibility._”

The words slither out like poison. Billy _hates _those words. He turns the doorknob and cracks open the door, but then he stills again because he _really _doesn’t want to deal with this shit tonight. Or any night, really.

“What do you mean? What are you going to _do_? That’s…you say those words to Billy all the time. What…hey, I’m still _talking to you_.”

“Really, Susan, you can’t be _that _oblivious. If I can keep my delinquent of a son in line with my lessons, then I sure as shit can keep your little brat in line with them, too.”

“Neil, please just”—

Neil is moving from the living room—practically charging down the hall toward Maxine’s room. Susan stumbles after the man and manages to grab his arm.

It happens in an instant.

One moment Susan’s hand is clutched around Neil’s forearm and the next moment Neil’s other arm is reeling back, fist closed and ready to land a blow.

Billy doesn’t let it get farther than this. He’s not sure _how _he ends up between them in time, but he does.

Prying Susan’s fingers from Neil’s arm is easy because she’s already backing away. Eventually the wall stops her and she’s sliding down to the ground in shock.

Billy manages to get himself out of the way at the last second, and Neil’s fist only catches air. The man stands there stunned. Like he can’t for the life of him figure out why Billy would willingly put himself between them. Like he can’t understand why Billy would interrupt one of his lessons.

Something in Neil’s face twists. It’s ugly and foreboding. “Billy,” he growls. Low. Dangerous. A warning. “I don’t appreciate being interrupted, son.”

Billy blanches for a moment. He didn’t think this through. He had no plan other than keeping his father away from Susan. And away from Max. But the only way he knows how to do that is to turn all the attention toward him. And, really, this probably wasn’t a good plan. He _really _should’ve thought this through. Because now he has _no idea_ what he’s doing. All he knows is that his father is _angry _and he’s probably going to bed with a bag of frozen peas for a pillow tonight.

“I know, sir.” He tries to suppress the tremor in his voice before he continues. “I just thought you would want me to stop you from doing something that you might regret later.”

Neil squints at his son. Billy tenses under the scrutiny, but he doesn’t back down. Neil scowls at him like he’s an insect and all Billy wants to do is crawl in a hole and hide from the world. “I wouldn’t. But you might.”

Neil pushes against Billy’s chest until Billy’s up against the wall, with Susan curled up on the floor beside him. From his peripheral vision, he catches her blank stare. For a brief moment, Billy worries that she’s dissociating, but he can’t really be bothered to care about that right now. “I’m sorry, sir. I just”—

“After all the lessons I taught you, you’re _still _coming back to _my _house drunk and high and _interrupting _me?”

Neil wraps one of his hands around Billy’s neck and the light pressure is all it takes for Billy’s breath to leave him. “_What _have we talked about?”

The pressure on his neck becomes tighter. Billy opens his mouth and _wills _the words to come out, but he can’t _breathe. _

“You will look at me when I’m talking to you.” Neil’s hand squeezes even more and Billy gasps for air. The hand pulls his neck forward and back again, and the back of his head slams against the wall. His vision is becoming splotchy, but he understands that he will not be released until he manages an answer.

He steels himself, tries to blink away the tiny spots lining his vision, and offers the kind of hardened face and cold eyes that he knows will satisfy Neil.

“Re…spect…and…responsibility.” He wheezes.

The hand tightens once more before Neil’s fingers loosen their grip. Billy hunches over with coughs and gasps. He needs air. _He needs air. _He sucks as much of it in as he can, as if his life depends on it. It might.

“That’s right,” he hears his father say. “Maybe you can help get that through to the rest of this ungrateful family.”

Billy’s still hunched over, but he finds his head bobbing up and down. He would agree to anything right now, he thinks, if it meant that this would be over.

“Right.”

Billy straightens up and watches his father glance down at Susan with an almost dismissive look. “See, Susan. Billy knows how to take a lesson about respect and responsibility. He understands the need for _real _discipline. Sure, he’s a little punk who has to be reminded of his place pretty often. But he _knows_. He gets it. You and Maxine will figure it out soon enough.” He pauses as he makes his way toward the open front door. “I’m going out. Don’t wait up.”

After the door slams, Billy looks back at Susan, who’s still staring off like she’s not even there. He would call her name to try to get her attention, but he’s not sure he has the breath for that. He’s sore and bruised and _tired. _So he just crouches down and gently prods her shoulder with his hand.

Even Susan’s flinch at the contact is delayed, but after a few blinks she finally seems to come back to herself. She’s _there _again. Her eyes swim with an emotion that Billy can’t place. “I…I…I’m so…Does he…”

Great. Gibberish.

Billy wants to ask her if she’s okay, but the words come out in wheezes.

Susan lifts herself up from the floor and leans on the wall. She turns her head toward the door for what seems like an hour before she jerks her head back toward Billy.

Billy hopes that she can see the question in his eyes and will tell him that she’s fine now so he can check on Max and then tend to his own wounds.

Susan’s horrified eyes flicker down to his bruising neck, her lips melting into a frown. “Has he always…have I just…you…I just...need to be alone right now.”

With that, she stumbles toward the bedroom she shares with Neil, careful not to slam the door as she closes it, but making it a point to turn the lock.

Billy almost crumbles, but he knows that he can’t let himself do that. Not yet.

He has to check on Maxine.

He makes his way to her bedroom and leans on the doorframe, rasping his knuckles against the oak. A muffled grumble responds. He tries the knob and finds it unlocked, so he pushes the door open.

His stepsister is curled up on her bed, over the covers, clutching at her stomach. Her head is pressed into a tear-stained pillow. The red strands of hair hide her face, but Billy knows for a fact that her cheeks are tracked with tears.

He forces the words to come out even though he’s still struggling to breathe. Even though he still can’t seem to get enough air and doesn’t think that anyone will actually hear him if he _does _manage to talk. “Are…you 'kay?”

He can’t help but flinch at his own voice. He sounds utterly _wrecked_.

A spark of blue shines through the red strands. “I don’t feel good, Billy. Can you just go, please?”

Billy nods even though he’s not sure she can see him.

He needs to tend to his neck anyway. Maybe get something to soothe his throat.

He’s about to close her door again when she sits up, still clutching her stomach, and moves the strands of hair out of her face. Her eyes are red and her face is wet, but her lips are set in a thin line and her brows are scrunched with determination.

“Wait…can you—well, do you want to watch one of the movies I rented? I mean, it was your money, so…”

Billy can tell she’s waiting for him to decline. Waiting for him to snap at her and slam her door. Waiting to stew in her misery again alone.

Just like Susan.

Just like Billy.

They’re just miserable, isolated strangers living under the same roof and tied to the same monster.

But Billy’s throat is too sore to call Max a nasty name and abandon her to her own misery.

And he’s sick of feeling alone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to stay home and wait for someone to come hook up our Wi-Fi today. The guy got hung up at another place, so I wrote this (and began the next few chapters) while I waited. I mean, I couldn't do any actual work without Wi-Fi, so...
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, kudos, and/or comments! I like knowing that this isn't just sailing off into the void. 
> 
> Enjoy, but also mind the tags and take care of yourselves.

Dustin bounces into the BMW and begins to chatter before Steve can even breathe out a greeting. The curly-haired kid is radiating so much energy that Steve briefly fears Dustin might somehow eject himself from the vehicle. Just shoot right up and smash through the sunroof. So Steve reminds Dustin to fasten his seatbelt while the kid’s still talking before he starts the car, turns the radio volume down, and begins to drive toward the Henderson household while he pretends to actively listen to everything that Dustin is telling him.

Well, he _is _listening. It’s not like he’s _ignoring _the boy. Of course he’s listening.

If he hears anything _notably_ good or _notably_ bad—anything relieving or worrying or whatever—he’ll make a mental note to cycle back to that part of the conversation once the kid winds down.

But Steve really doesn’t feel like he needs to be paying attention to Dustin’s school day play-by-play. Sure, he wants to know how Dustin did on his math test, but does he _really _need to know that the boy gave his extra pencil to the cute girl in front of him in civics? And that the only pencil he had left broke in his next class, which meant that he didn’t have anything to take notes with for the rest of the day?

And that Mike and Lucas refused to help him out because they thought he was dumb for giving this cute girl the pencil in the first place? And that Will, the one in the party who _would’ve _helped Dustin out, just happened to be absent today?

(Okay, well, Steve _does _kind of appreciate knowing that Will was absent. He’ll have to reach out to the Byers' to make sure everything’s okay. He supposes he could call. Or he could just ask Jonathan. He’s certain that he’ll see Jonathan at some point this weekend. But… maybe asking after Will might come across as overbearing or… _weird. _Though, they’ve all probably crossed the line when it comes to weird and co-dependent a long time ago… Or, at least, several monsters and conspiracies ago.)

The_ point_, though, is that, sure, Steve’s not the smartest, but he’s pretty damn sure that he doesn’t need to know _all _of this.

Unless, of course, Dustin is planning on asking the cute girl that sits in front of him in civics out on a date. _Then _that would become something Steve would want to know. Because _that’s _actually something that he could help Dustin with.

Then he could be _useful_.

So he nods. Pretends. Snorts when appropriate. 

They’re already pulling into Dustin’s driveway when the kid asks Steve how his day went. Asks Steve if anything exciting happened. Or if he’s noticed anything strange lately. Dustin’s been asking _everyone _about weird or strange things--however slight or seemingly insignificant_, _he says—_a lot_ lately.

Steve suspects that Dustin’s getting bored with the current small-town quiet. Dustin seems to be filled with an untapped force of energy that is bubbling up to the surface and about to burst. The kid is on the verge of imploding and Steve knows it could happen at any moment.

Steve can hear the desperation in Dustin’s rambles.

Steve shrugs in response to the question as he puts the car in park. Nothing strange. Nothing weird. Just something… worrying.

He doesn’t _want _to talk about his English class and being paired with Billy Hargrove, but he supposes that he’s going to have to tell Dustin at some point.

He might as well rip the bandage off now.

“Uh, my English teacher paired me and Billy up for some big project.” He avoids Dustin’s face as he mumbles the words, but he knows that it's twisted into an expression of horror and disgust.

“Your English teacher did _what_?!” Dustin’s voice comes out as a wail loud enough for every single creature from the Upside Down to hear.

Steve takes his hand off the gear shift and makes a point of rubbing his right ear as Dustin stares at him, open-mouthed, from the passenger’s seat.

The kid doesn’t seem fazed in the least about almost blowing out one of Steve’s eardrums. He’s clearly too focused on the _Billy Hargrove _part of it all.

“It’s okay,” Steve says. “I can deal with it.” He thinks.

He _hopes. _

“No, no. That doesn’t work for me. Get your teacher to fix it. Like, _now_.”

The demand is so simple and yet_ so_ complicated.

“I can’t just forge a note asking that the pairs be switched around. It doesn’t work like that. This is _high school_ we’re talking about, bud.”

Steve refrains from mentioning that _his very first_—and _very stupid_—thought was to try to forge a note. He refrains from mentioning that his stomach is in knots just thinking of having to deal with Billy Hargrove_ twice_ a week. He also refrains from mentioning that he’s actually acutely terrified that Billy might beat him to a bloody pulp simply because Steve is a remarkably poor choice for a partner—_for anyone_—and might bring down their grade even if he _does _contribute.

Steve’s not good at school. He’s not even good in a fight.

Steve is good at three things: taking a beating, looking after other people’s kids, and somehow getting pulled into the freaky shit that sometimes happens in this surprisingly not-so-sleepy town. 

The more he contemplates this English project, the more he starts to sympathize with Hargrove for being saddled with such a dud for a partner and the more he worries for his own physical well-being. Even more so than usual.

“Well, I don’t care how it works. You _cannot _be partners with that psycho. He almost _killed_ you.” Dustin spits out the words with poorly contained fury.

True or not, Steve knows that the kid’s anger doesn’t really matter. He knows that what he wants, what Dustin wants, and what _Hargrove _wants—well, he knows that their wants don’t matter at all.

What’s done is done. Now Steve just has to deal with it and hope that he survives long enough to come out from the other end.

“Yeah, I’m sure I can just tell Ms. Fenrir that and then she’ll be absolutely cool with changing everything around.”

“Yes! Exactly!”

Great. Steve can’t even do _sarcasm _right.

“Dustin.” Steve chastises.

“Steve.” Dustin matches his tone and lifts an eyebrow.

“Look, let’s just…not talk about it, okay? Your mom’s going to be late tonight, so let’s just get inside, I’ll whip you up some dinner, pack up some leftovers for your mother, and once she gets back, I’ll be on my merry way so that you can go cause trouble with the rest of the runts or something.”

Dustin removes his ball cap and begins to loosely twist it with his hands while staring out the windshield. After a moment, he seems to make a decision, because he throws his ball cap back on his head, pushing it over his mess of curls, and nods with vigor.

“Fine. But this isn’t over.”

After Steve hunts down some ingredients for a thick, comforting chili and he and Dustin wolf down a few bowls like the bottomless pits that they are, Steve begins to clean up the kitchen and pack the leftovers for Mrs. Henderson while Dustin camps out in the living room with his walkie talkie.

It’s the tone that Dustin uses when he switches his radio to the right channel that clues Steve in. The kid is _trying _to be quiet. It’s clear that he doesn’t _want_ Steve to hear. But, of course, even a quiet Dustin isn’t that quiet, so Steve just turns the faucet off and begins drying the dishes he’s just washed as he prepares to listen.

“Code Red. _Code Red_. Guys, this is Dustin and I repeat that we have a _Code Red_. Anyone copy? Over.”

After a few seconds of static, Mike’s voice comes through in a panic. “Copy! Copy! I hear you, Dustin. El’s here too. What’s wrong? Over.”

Lucas’s voice, alert and wary, comes through moments later. “What’s happening? Over.”

Steve hears Dustin shift on the couch before responding. “Steve’s just been paired up with the nightmare that is _Billy Hargrove _for an English project.”

“That’s not… _Jesus_, Dustin. El and I thought that something was _really wrong. _Over.”

Steve can hear the annoyance in Mike’s muffled voice.

Dustin doesn’t cave at the tone. If anything, he begins to sound even more passionate. “Something _is _wrong. And that something’s name is Billy Hargrove. Over.”

“A Code Red is for _real _danger. Like, _monster _danger.” Steve swears he can hear Mike grit his teeth as if he’s explaining to his friends for the umpteenth time what the rules are.

“Billy _is _a monster.” Dustin argues. “He almost _killed _Steve, remember? And now he’s going to have _several _opportunities to do it again. We have to put a stop to it, because _Steve’s _not going to fix it on his own. The guy thinks he can actually _deal _with it. I mean, yeah, he says that now, but come two _weeks _from now, we’re probably going to be pulling his battered body out of a shallow grave.”

Steve wants to be offended. But he’s really not. He gets it. He _could _be in a shallow grave in two or three weeks.

Mike doesn’t let up either, clearly still annoyed. “This is, like, a Code Yellow. At _best._”

“_Mike_. Over.”

Steve hears more muffles. A sigh. Then a bit of static.

Then: “Fine. What should we do? Over.”

“What you should do is shut the fuck up about shit that you don’t understand.” Max’s voice comes through the channel, tight and angry.

“You hate Billy. Over.” Lucas sounds surprised at the fire in Max’s words.

“Yeah, what’s your problem, Max? Also, please remember to say over. Over.” Dustin reminds her.

“I _don’t _hate Billy.” Max’s voice comes out clear and insistent. And still angry. “And if Steve thinks that he can deal with this on his own, then just let him. It’s not our business, okay?” A pause. “Over.”

“I’m sorry,” Dustin sounds a bit stunned and _very_ disbelieving. “Did the girl who nearly ripped off her stepbrother’s balls with Steve’s nail-studded bat in an effort to get him to leave _all of us—including Steve—_alone just tell us that this is _none of our business_? Did that just happen? Steve’s a party member. We _help _our own. It’s what we _do_. Over.”

“Well, it kind of sounds like he doesn’t want our help.” Max bites out. “And Billy certainly doesn’t deserve your shit, so just leave it the fuck alone before I _make _you.”

Several voices come through at once and Steve can’t quite make out who’s saying what through the static.

“Jesus”—

“What crawled up your ass, Mad Max?”—

“_Make _us?”—

And then noisy silence.

And then a click and_ more_ noisy silence.

Steve’s not really paying attention at the moment, anyway. He’s consumed with how _tight _and _angry _and _upset _Max sounded. He closes his eyes and thinks about the finger-shaped marks on Billy’s arm and Max telling him that her stepfather is an asshole. The evidence is all there. It’s clear that there’s real fucked up shit happening under that roof and the need to know _exactly _what's going on inside that house bubbles up again. But then Steve pushes that need back down.

_None of your business, remember?_

But the anger and upset in Max’s voice…

Steve’s not sure what to think right now or how to help, so he just tries to shake it all away.

When Steve tunes into the conversation again, he hears Lucas’s voice. “Guys, I don’t think she’s on the channel anymore. Over.”

“But she didn’t say over and out.” Dustin whines.

“So, what are we doing about the Billy situation? Cause I really don’t feel like invoking the wrath of Mad Max. Over.” Lucas sounds certain that _anything_ is better than fueling his girlfriend’s anger. Considering her tone, Steve is inclined to agree with him.

“We’ll just have to keep our eyes and ears open. Stay alert. Be ready to step in if we have to. That’s all we can really do at the moment, I guess. My mom’s calling us up for dinner, though, so I got to go. See you later. Over and out.” Mike’s answer is reluctant.

Like he doesn’t _want _to deal with this and believes that now he has a good excuse _not _to, but also feels an obligation to support all party members. Including the honorary ones that he doesn’t quite care for.

Steve hears Dustin shift on the couch once more before offering the others a resigned “over and out.”

Steve continues drying the dishes and plays dumb.

Dustin doesn’t need to know that he listened in on that entire conversation.

None of the kids need to know that.

When Steve finally leaves the Henderson household, after greeting Mrs. Henderson, reheating leftovers for her, and not knowing how to accept her warm praise or open affection, he drives around for a while.

He briefly considers going to Tommy’s house party, but he understands that’s not his scene anymore.

He understands with the kind of clarity that only comes to him late at night, when the town around him is deceptively quiet and he’s waiting for the monsters to pop out from the shadows, that the people who go to those parties aren’t really his friends anymore.

He also understands the likelihood that they were never really his friends to begin with. That they were all just playing the same games for the sake of popularity and reputation.

So he just drives home to his empty house, attempts to make his way from the front door to the living room, in the dark, as quietly as possible, and crashes face-first onto the couch.

He lets his left arm fall off the permanently-indented cushion, scrapes his knuckles against the floor, and uses his fingers to carefully explore underneath the couch.

He just needs to make sure that his bat is still right where he left it before he can allow himself to close his eyes and drift off.

Just in case.

On Saturday morning, Steve calls to check on Will and the rest of the kid’s family. He learns from Jonathan that the boy is holed up with a nasty cold and that Joyce is hovering, so he brings soup, nudges Joyce out of Will’s room, encourages her to get out for some fresh air and to take care of herself too, and listens to some music with Jonathan.

Once their conversation starts leading toward Nancy, well, that’s Steve’s cue to leave.

He drives some of the kids to the arcade, and then to the pizza shop, and then to the movies, and then, against his better judgment, to the middle of the woods.

He declines their invitations for him to join them for these activities because he’s just an _honorary _member of the party. He’s just here to get them to where they need to go_ safely_.

To keep them out of harm’s way or lend his bat full of nails, if needed.

He shouldn’t _hang out _with a group of kids who are just barely teenagers. Because then he isn’t really just the babysitter anymore. Then he isn’t_ just_ taking care of them. Then he isn’t being _useful_.

If he does just…_hang_, then he’s the weird teenager who lives alone in a sad, empty house and who doesn’t have any age-appropriate friends. Not that anyone really _knows_ about the sad, empty house part of the equation.

He only caves on his refusal to partake twice, which is an improvement from past weekends. He only caves for the pizza and taking the kids out into the middle of the woods. Because if they’re doing that anyway, then there’s _no fucking way_ he’s leaving them there alone to _investigate shit _themselves.

And then Steve comes home to his empty house later that night, careful not to turn the lights on or make too much noise, careful to make sure his bat is right where he left it. Careful to dig out the walkie talkie that Dustin gifted him for emergencies from the drawer in the coffee table so that he can be ready if anyone needs him.

Just in case.

When he finally manages to sleep, he’s haunted by shifting shadows and long, sharp, branch-like fingers that dig their way into his flesh and begin to tear him apart.

The phantom pain has him gasping awake in a sweat.

When he finally manages to fall asleep _again_, he tosses and turns and falls off the couch.

Luckily the nail-infused bat is _under _the couch and he doesn’t end up accidentally impaling himself. What a horror show _that _would be if the kids ever found him like that.

In the morning, he takes stock of all he’s gathered since the first time crazy stuff started happening around here. Ensures that his three first aid kits are full of all the necessary supplies. Ensures that there’s still non-perishable food in the pantry and tools and weapons and blankets and sleeping bags and batteries and flashlights and tents and a generator in the garage. Ensures that he hasn’t consumed all the liquor in his father’s liquor cabinet yet.

Just in case.

Sunday is much of the same and before Steve even knows it, the weekend is over. He begins the week exhausted and zombie-like.

Monday sweeps by, and after another sleepless, nightmare-plagued night on the couch, it’s Tuesday.

He’s officially run out of time.

Because tonight’s the night that Billy Fucking Hargrove is coming over.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and for any kudos/comments!
> 
> Enjoy, but please mind the tags and take care of yourselves.

On Saturday morning, Billy wakes to the sound of Max heaving in the bathroom.

_Ugh. _

He’s not a particularly religious guy, but he prays to whatever higher power might exist that Max isn’t contagious. Or, at least, he prays that she doesn’t get _him _sick. He does _not _want to be forced to stay at home this week. School is his sanctuary, after all.

Getting sick is the _last _thing he needs.

Especially considering his neck and throat are still throbbing.

As he rolls out of bed and heads toward the kitchen, he pauses at the bathroom door. Once the sound of flushing fades, he presses his face against the door. “You better brush your teeth before you come out of there. I don’t want to be smelling vomit on your breath while I’m trying to eat my breakfast.”

He can’t hear what she mutters in response, but somehow he knows that she’s mustered up enough energy to flip him off through the wood. He snorts before collapsing onto a chair at the kitchen table.

After a few minutes, he hears the bathroom door creak open and watches Max, hunched over and cradling her stomach, make her way to one of the other chairs. She slumps down and rests her head on the table. “Fuck you,” she says, but there’s no heat to her tired words.

They both glance toward the bedroom door at the end of the hallway. Still closed. Still locked, Billy guesses. Not that it matters at the moment.

The house is still and quiet, and that’s how Billy knows that Neil never came home last night.

_Good_, he thinks.

Max’s gaze moves from the closed bedroom door to Billy’s neck. Her face grows sour and Billy shifts in his seat before jerkily lifting himself out of his chair to stumble toward the pantry for a box of Corn Chex. He can feel Max’s eyes follow him as he moves through the kitchen. _Bowl. Spoon. Carton of milk._

Her eyes are still burning into him when he dumps the contents he’s gathered onto the kitchen table before flopping back into his chair.

She didn’t say anything about the state of his neck last night while they watched their movie, but he did catch a few glances throughout the night.

A few eyebrow crinkles.

A few frowns.

She seemed to be on alert when she watched him alternate between a bag of frozen peas and a hot water bottle. Like she was pretending to not pay too much attention, but was ready to jump in and help at any moment.

Now, her blue eyes blaze into him.

He looks at her pointedly, daring her to comment on his bruised neck. Instead, her eyes flicker back to that closed bedroom door and she says, “I don’t think she’s coming out today.”

There’s an angry sadness beneath her words that Billy finds uncomfortably familiar, but he doesn’t reply because he doesn’t want to talk too much. He just shrugs as he pours some cereal into his bowl and then some milk.

After swallowing his first spoonful, he realizes that cereal is _not _the right move. The food claws at his throat as it travels down, so he plunges his spoon back into the bowl, lets some of the milk splatter out onto the table, and stares at his unattainable meal, his stomach aching with hunger and frustration.

Max’s eyes are still on him. When she sees him drop his spoon, she forces herself out of her chair and begins to shuffle around the kitchen herself.

Billy continues to stare down at his uneaten cereal, watching as the Corn Chex slowly grow soggy.

He’s consumed with how sore his throat is.

With how much his bruised neck still aches.

With how much it could still be swelling.

With Neil fucking _stealing_—however briefly—his _literal voice_.

He’s not even paying attention to Max or what she’s doing, so he’s surprised when she suddenly sets a mug of steaming tea and a jar of honey in front of him.

Billy looks at his pain-in-the-ass stepsister and quirks his eyebrow in disbelief.

The question in his face is clear. _Is this supposed to be for me?_

She rolls her eyes and looks at his bowl of cereal. “I wanted tea. And I happened to make extra, so…mix that honey into it. It’s good for your throat.”

With that, she pivots and continues to shuffle around the kitchen, leaving Billy to continue to stare at this steaming mug of tea that Max has made for him.

Long enough, apparently, for Max to slide a bowl of noodle soup his way as well.

How long has he…_what the hell?_

He leans forward and breathes in the smell of sage-seasoned veggie broth. He looks back at Max, who’s tugging at her red hair and glaring into nothing. Billy continues to stare at her until she finally meets his eyes.

_What are you doing? Why are you making me food? You’re the one who’s sick, right? You were just puking in the bathroom. Shouldn’t I be taking care of you right now? I mean, if I have to? Isn’t that how this works?_

He’s not sure he’s communicating these silent questions well enough, though, because she fixes him with a fierce look and says, “When I don’t feel good, I like to…soup and tea help me sometimes. Maybe they can help you too.”

So he sips on a spoonful of broth, closes his eyes, and lets the heat wash through him. Relaxes into the soothing burn.

***

Susan finally comes out of the bedroom she shares with Neil on Sunday morning.

Billy lies in his bed and listens to her fumble around in the kitchen for a while. Clumsily. Noisily.

When she’s finished and Maxine and Billy finally make their way out of their bedrooms, she offers them a large breakfast of eggs and toast and bacon and pancakes.

The kitchen looks a disaster from Susan’s efforts, and Billy finds himself thankful that Neil still hasn’t come home. And if the man hasn’t come home _yet_, that means he’s still on a standard weekend bender. That means he probably won’t come home until later tonight or tomorrow morning.

It means that they have time to clean.

Susan fusses over both of them. Plates their food. Makes them tea. Talks about how lovely the day is. How Billy should go out and get some fresh air and how this is Maxine’s last day of being grounded.

Susan’s words float in a way that has Billy concerned. The woman is acting like Friday night didn’t even happen. Like her husband didn’t almost punch her in the face. Like he didn’t threaten her daughter. Didn’t _strangle _Billy.

Like she didn’t lock herself in a room to stew on all of this alone, _for more than a day_, and leave her daughter and stepson to deal with the aftermath.

Billy wants to scream at her, to grab her shoulders and shake her back to reality, but he has a sinking feeling that doing either would simply make things worse. Might make Susan disappear completely.

Her vacant face tilts and she frowns with displeasure when she notices that neither teen has taken a bite of the food she’s made.

“Eat up!” She insists.

Cheery.

Empty.

Max glares at her food and starts vehemently stabbing at the eggs, her fork scraping against the plate in a way that chills Billy’s teeth.

He watches and listens to the harsh clangs of metal against stoneware, imagining Neil’s head as the eggs. _Stab. Stab. Stab!_

Billy silently cheers Max on before grabbing his mug of tea and heading straight to his room, making sure to slam his door.

Susan doesn't even yell after him in protest.

He savors Neil’s absence.

***

That evening, after Susan cleans the kitchen while absently humming along to the radio and then flutters back into the bedroom she shares with Neil, Billy ventures out of his own room for some food that might be easy on his throat.

He halts when he hears rustling in the laundry room. And crying.

_What the fuck?_

What he finds is Max with bloody bed sheets and angry tears.

She looks petrified.

When Billy walks in, she immediately tries to hide the bloodstained sheets by moving them behind her back.

“Get the fuck out of here!”

Billy knows the words are meant to sound threatening, but Max’s voice cracks and betrays her.

Billy walks up to her, ignores her flinch, and rips the sheets from her hands. “What the fuck is going on?” he growls, his voice low and raspy.

Watery blue eyes blink up at him. Max’s lip begins to quiver and she frantically reaches for the sheets that Billy just tore out of her hands. She’s vibrating with a desperation that Billy finds unsettling. A desperation that he wants to contain, because if it spills over…

“When my mom is…”

The sentence fades away, as if Maxine isn’t sure how to finish it.

_The word you’re looking for is _gone, Billy wants to say. _When your mother is gone. Because she sure as shit ain’t here right now. Hasn’t been around all weekend, really. _

But he just waits for Maxine to fill up the silence again.

“When my mom is…_Neil_ does the laundry and I…I didn’t _mean_…I didn’t _know_…It’s my _first time, _okay? I just, please, I don’t want Neil to see.”

Frantic words. Terror-stricken face. Tears. Shaking shoulders.

Billy processes the _Neil_ part of her words first.

He gets the distress in that regard. His father _hates_ messes. Everything needs to be clean. Everything needs to be put in its proper place. _Tidy_. The appearance of a clean-cut family living an orderly life in an orderly house. Average. Normal. _Respectable. _

In terms of appearance, anyway. Really, it makes the frequent weekend-long benders all the more ironic.

_Of course_ Neil would freak out about bloody sheets.

But Billy still doesn’t quite get the rest of what Max is saying...

_First_… first time. Oh.

_Oh. _

Somehow, this past week makes a lot more sense to Billy. The tears. The bursts of anger. The moodiness. The—well what could only be classified as Max-style clinginess. The kind of sick that didn’t really make sense to him and that he _prayed_ he didn’t catch.

Well, at least he knows for a_ fact_ now that this isn’t contagious.

Beyond that knowledge, he’s not sure how to handle the situation. He’s not sure what to say or how to comfort this kid who’s not really a kid anymore.

To be fair, she probably stopped being a kid the moment Susan married Neil, if not before that.

He wonders if Susan’s always been the way she is now or if it started with Neil.

Billy reaches out and gently removes the pale hands that are once again clutching at the sheets. He then places the bed sheets on top of the dryer before turning back to his stepsister.

“I know how to get the blood out,” he tells her softly. “I’ll take care of this.”

Maxine’s watery blue eyes search Billy’s face, uncertain. Still clearly terrified. She wraps her arms around her middle and nods shakily, red hair falling into her face. “Billy…”

It’s clear that she wants—that she _needs _something else too. So Billy just waits. Schools his face so that it’s passive. Accepting. He tries to melt down some of the coldness in his eyes, but he’s gotten so used to hardening everything—his face, his eyes, his _being—_for the sake of survival.

“What do you need, Max?” He asks as gently as he can muster.

He watches her shoulders sag.

“I…don’t have…Well. It’s my first time, okay? I don’t have…anything…and Susan never… she… well, that doesn’t matter anyway, because I don’t think she’s coming out again tonight.” She mutters the words with a bowed head.

Billy lets out a sigh as he leans against the dryer. Max’s broken words twist his stomach.

Clearly, Susan never even _thought_ to prepare her daughter for a coming reality. Never talked to her about puberty or sex or the changes that were coming—sooner rather than later. Susan just abandoned Max to the mercy of a small town’s public school system. Just left Max to figure out this crazy hormonal shift on her own.

Billy feels sick.

He wants to tell Max that this is like a rite of passage in every girl’s life. A normal process. _Healthy_.

Well, he’s not sure if her experience _is _a healthy one considering how sick she’s been feeling and the fact that he woke up to the sounds of her puking yesterday. But that’s all the more reason for someone close to her to _educate _her about this shit.

To tell her that it’s not shameful. 

That it’s not something that should have her terrified and frantically attempting to wash away the evidence so that his _fucking father_ doesn’t see the blood.

But Billy can’t say any of this. Because he doesn’t _get _periods. He doesn’t _know. _

Whatever he does say about any of it... well it probably means nothing coming from him.

A growing helplessness curls inside of him. His anger toward Susan wars against his desire to help Max. And his desire to help Max is blocked by his lack of knowledge and understanding. He grapples for something _real _that he can offer her.

Something he can _do._

“I’ll go to the store and get you what you need,” he promises. “Need to pick up stuff for my neck and throat, anyway.”

He tries to comprehend the expression on Max’s face, but before he can even decipher it, she’s thrusting herself forward and wrapping her arms around him. Stunned, he just lets her cling to him for a few seconds.

Then, just as abruptly, she’s pushing herself away and avoiding his eyes.

“Thanks, Billy,” she says, almost shyly, before shuffling out of the laundry room.

Billy looks down at the bloodstained sheets for a moment. Curling his fingers around the stiff fabric, he shoves down the rising anger and helplessness and gets to work.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all. This took me a bit longer than I would've liked and I'm still not really sure about this chapter. But I promise that more is coming very soon.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, for the kudos, and for all the lovely comments! It all keeps me energized. :)
> 
> As always, please mind the tags and take care of yourselves.
> 
> Enjoy!

Dustin convinces Steve to take him into the woods again after school on Tuesday.

Steve’s ready to say _fuck no_, especially considering that he has to mentally prepare himself for the fact that Hargrove is going to be at his house in a few hours, but he can’t bring himself to deny Dustin’s request. Because he knows that if he doesn’t take the kid, then Dustin will just go himself. Oh, Dustin might take other members of the party with him, but that _definitely _doesn’t make it any better. In fact, that would make it even worse.

So Steve takes Dustin out into the woods because the kid is convinced he heard freakish howling throughout the weekend. This alleged howling didn’t sound like wolves. According to Dustin, the howls _might _belong to another demodog _or—_and according to Dustin the latter is more likely—a _werewolf. _Dustin voices his theory as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like there’s no question that werewolves actually exist.

Steve’s not sure whether he wants to burst into hysterical laughter or sob ugly tears or bang the side of his head against his window when Dustin tells him this. He sincerely hopes that the howling Dustin claims he heard is neither demodog _nor_ werewolf. But all he can really think about in that moment is Dustin’s excited rambling. The kid’s voice sounds almost…electrified.

_I swear, dude. It was, like, a monster trying to call out to other monsters. I _knew_ we were going to have to face more crazy shit soon. So let’s go out and prove it so that I can let Mike know that we really _do _have a Code Red on our hands. _

The _finally _after Dustin’s rant goes unspoken, but it still clings to the air until Steve inevitably—as always—caves in.

And, in this case, caving in means taking Dustin into the woods mere hours before his first meeting with Hargrove.

What they find is, well, a whole lot of nothing.

Barren trees, with their branches stretching up into a gray sky in sharp angles. Shriveled leaves atop frosted grass. The occasional patter of tiny paws against bark as squirrels scurry up the tree trunks. The fluctuating whispers of early winter wind.

So, yeah. Nothing.

But every time Steve hears the crunch of the glazed grass and dead leaves under his feet, he feels like he’s walking over brittle, decaying bones and grounding them into dust.

At some point, they reach a small clearing and _still_ find nothing.

In the chill, Steve can see his breath. It’s coming out in jagged huffs because he’s starting to freak out a bit.

The constant crunch under his feet turns his stomach, but he doesn’t understand why.

What happens if they_ do _find something?

He doesn’t have his bat right now, and he instantly regrets not being prepared. He’s spent so much time making sure they’re all _always_ prepared for whatever might happen next and now he doesn’t even have his goddamn nail-infused bat.

There’s no way he can guarantee Dustin’s safety in this moment.

And what the hell was he thinking letting the kids go out this weekend, anyway? And Steve’s just gone and done it again. Because what the hell was he thinking letting Dustin convince him to do this _now_?

Steve’s meant to keep these kids safe. He’s supposed to stay on top of this stuff. Be prepared. Be _useful_.

But now he feels useless. Unprepared. Stupid.

He’s an idiot.

He’s utter _bullshit_.

Maybe he’s just been fooling himself about being damn good at babysitting. Maybe he’s actually shit at it. Just like everything else.

Maybe there are really only two things he’s good at: taking a beating and getting dragged into weird, scary, apocalyptic situations. And, he supposes that he’s relatively decent at making sure the kids in his care don’t actually _die_ during such occasions. But that’s about it.

In an effort to do something better—to not be the terrible caretaker that he’s proving to be—he begins trying to convince Dustin to go back toward the car.

“Well, whatever you heard, I don’t think we’re going to find it. At least, not today. So, maybe we should just…call it quits for now?” Steve’s voice is tight with all his anxiety. “And aren’t you cold? My car has a heater, you know.”

Of course Dustin knows this.

Steve takes in Dustin’s crossed arms and stiffened shoulders. The kid looks like he’s about to argue. But then Dustin looks up at Steve, nose scrunched in thought as he chews on his bottom lip. Steve tenses under the scrutiny and begins shifting from foot to foot. He hopes that the jacket he’s wearing is thick enough to hide his trembling shoulders.

Steve starts thinking about other ways he might finally convince this curly-haired little menace that nothing is out here right now so that he can get warm, go home, temporarily shake off this crushing feeling of uselessness, and prepare himself for the inevitable.

But then Dustin just lets out an exasperated sigh and nods his head.

“Sure. Fine. We can come back tomorrow, right? Or maybe this weekend? Actually, maybe we should check out the tunnels this weekend. Then we can…”

The excitement in Dustin’s voice is back as he pivots toward the BMW.

As Steve lets the kid’s words wash over him and fade away, he finds himself a little awed at not having to make a big speech to convince Dustin to table this search for another time. If Dustin has decided not to argue with him on this, well, then, he must look pretty damn pathetic.

As Steve trails behind his self-appointed charge—just to make sure nothing comes after the boy from behind—he trips over a branch.

At least he _thinks _it’s a branch. Or maybe it’s a root jutting out of the ground.

His outstretched hands curl into cold, hard dirt as he falls forward.

Then he feels a sharp twinge near his ankle and grunts.

Looking down toward the source of his pain, he sees nothing but frost and dirt and grass. He sits up and tries to settle his rapid heartbeat.

_You’re fine. You’re just an idiot._

Noticing a small tear in his right pant leg, he pulls it up, pushes his sock down, and glances at his exposed ankle.

A bit of blood blossoms out of a small gash.

What the hell?

Where did that branch go?

There aren’t even _tree roots _by his legs. And yet, somehow he’s managed to hurt himself.

Figures.

At least he has three first aid kits at home.

Maybe he should invest in more.

Steve stumbles back up, brushes himself off, and looks toward Dustin, who’s still jogging ahead of him, toward the car. Still rambling, too. He clearly hasn’t noticed any of this.

Good.

The kid doesn’t need to know how absolutely useless Steve is.

If he can manage to injure himself on nothing, how is he ever going to keep these kids out of harm's way?

As that thought begins to overwhelm him, Steve shoves it down. Tries to mute that terrible voice in his head as he pulls his pant leg back down to cover up the wound and follows Dustin back to the car.

***

Steve groans when he sees the flashing red and blue in his rearview mirror. Dustin turns his body and lifts himself over his seat’s headrest to get a better look at the cruiser as Steve pulls over. Steve figures the kid’s just trying to suss out whether they are dealing with Hopper or one of the other cops.

“I _told _you you were speeding,” Dustin complains as he peers out the rear windshield.

“I was not!” Steve protests.

He wasn’t. He hasn’t done anything wrong, and really, this is just what he needs before he has to deal with Billy Fucking Hargrove all night.

The door to the cruiser opens and Chief Jim Hopper steps out. Both Steve and Dustin breathe their own sighs of relief. But those sighs of relief are short-lived. Because Steve hasn’t done anything wrong. And if he hasn’t done anything wrong and Hopper is flagging them down…well, that can only mean one thing, right?

As if in answer, his ankle begins to pulse with pain. Maybe there _is _a monster in the woods.

Maybe they couldn’t find it because they simply couldn’t _see _it.

Dustin slumps back into his seat and leans forward, vibrating with an energy that Steve finds unnerving.

Once Hopper reaches the BMW, Steve rolls down the window. “I swear I haven’t done anything wrong, Hop.”

Dustin’s voice, full of excitement and anticipation, almost drowns him out. “What’s happening? Is the gate open? Is there a _different _gate? Is _that _gate open? Are there new monsters? Are they, like, werewolves? Cause I swear I heard some freaky howling over the weekend and werewolves would totally make sense.”

Hopper frowns down at them. “Steve.”

That tone instantly has Steve on edge. It reminds him of the way his father talks to him. When the guy’s around, anyway. Gripping the steering wheel, Steve looks at Hopper with forced nonchalance. “Whatcha want, Hop? Are you giving me a ticket? If you are, then I’d really like to know what I did.”

Hopper sighs. His eyes sweep over the empty road before he responds. “We have to have a little chat. Didn’t want to make a house call, because I didn’t want to freak out your parents.”

Steve chokes back a watery cackle. His parents would have to be around to freak out about a cop coming to the house. Instead of audibly scoffing at the idea, he just blinks the sting away from his eyes and asks, “Oh, so this _does _have something to do with…monster shit then.”

Hopper shakes his head, takes off his hat, and leans in, resting his arm over the rolled down window. Steve gets the distinct feeling that he’s about to be lectured. Yelled at. Regarded with shattering disapproval.

His skin begins to itch and he squirms in discomfort. He doesn’t know if he can handle Hopper looking at him the way that his parents look at him.

“I heard you took some of the kids out to the woods on Saturday.”

Yep, this is definitely a lecture. Steve exchanges a look with Dustin, whose face is flushed and whose eyes are wide. But not in the guilty way. So at least there’s that.

“Well, I couldn’t just let them go alone,” Steve admits sheepishly.

“You shouldn’t have let them go _at all_.” The chief seethes through gritted teeth.

Steve resists the urge to tell Hopper that these kids aren’t really kids anymore. And that budding teenagers are going to do whatever the hell they want to do, regardless of the consequences. But he bites his tongue, because he understands the desperation and frustration underneath Hopper’s words. And Steve wants to keep these kids safe too.

It’s why he tries so hard to make sure they’re not always involved in this nonsense on their own. 

It’s why he tries so hard to watch out for them. To keep tabs on them. To _protect _them. To make sure that none of them are facing terrifying things alone.

“Who even told you what we were up to this weekend, anyway?” Dustin asks, irritation in his voice.

Hopper squints at the kid and Dustin shrinks back into his seat immediately, crossing his arms and bowing his head.

“Unlike some of you runts, _my _kid’s not a liar.”

Dustin’s head whips up again, a look of horror on his face. “_El_ told you? That’s like—_such a betray_”—

“It’s a_ good_ thing.” Hopper states, not willing to let Dustin finish. “Now I know that you guys are still wandering around looking for trouble. And that stops now, got it? The gate is closed. The monsters are gone. It’s time to move on. Time to be _kids_. Or, just, it’s time to _enjoy_ your adolescence. I think my mental health depends on it.”

“But what if”—

Hopper holds up his hand and cuts through Dustin’s words again. “If something happens, then there are…_professionals_…around who can take care of it. It’s not your responsibility to save the world.” The man pauses. “Again.”

“But what if they don’t”—

Dustin sounds so much like a broken record and Hopper sounds so much like a rigid old man who doesn’t remember what it’s even like to be a kid or a teenager—let alone remember what kind of epic, monster fighting team they all made in the recent past—that Steve just wants to laugh until he cries. Instead, he closes his eyes and accepts that he’s sitting in the middle of two people trying and failing to have a productive conversation because they’re basically on separate wavelengths.

“This is an order, kid. I don’t want you guys out looking for shit in the woods. _Or _the tunnels. And don’t go out to the lab either. If there’s a crack in the gate, if there are still some straggling demodogs running around or something, well, it’s not your job anymore to take care of that. Yes, I want you to be _prepared _just in case something_ does_ happen. But that’s not the same thing as going out and _actively_ looking for monsters to hunt down. I don’t want to stumble on any of your mangled corpses while I’m out on patrol, okay?”

“But”—

“I mean it.”

“Okay. No _active _monster hunting. Got it. But if a monster _finds _us, well, then, all bets are off. We make no promises in that case.” Dustin declares.

Hopper grunts a little and nods. It’s clear from his narrowed eyes that he doesn’t quite believe in the promise. He turns his gaze back to Steve and the teen squirms some more. “That said, I want you to let me know if you _do _notice anything strange. Or weird. Or troubling. So we can all take care of it before it becomes a real problem.”

Ignoring his feelings that Hopper is contradicting himself, Steve thinks about his injured ankle. That doesn’t really count as strange, does it? He basically just tripped on a branch. Or a tree root. Except for the fact that he couldn’t find either of those things while he was still on the ground investigating.

_Please. Of course that doesn’t count. You’re such an idiot. _

_You’re bullshit._

“Sure,” Steve promises. “So, can we go now?”

Hopper furrows his eyebrows like he wants to say more, but then he reconsiders. “Yeah, you can go. Just…careful on the roads, okay Harrington? It’s starting to get a bit icy.”

***

Once Steve pulls up to the arcade, where Dustin is meeting other members of the party, the curly-haired brat refuses to get out of the car until Steve promises to keep the walkie talkie Dustin gifted him turned on. Just in case he needs the party’s help when Hargrove comes over.

Steve has to promise that he will reach out, if necessary, four times before Dustin seems even remotely satisfied.

When Steve finally _does_ make it home, his exhaustion convinces him to ignore his throbbing ankle. Instead of grabbing one of his first aid kits, disinfecting the gash, and slapping a bandage over it, he heads straight for the couch.

After checking to make sure his bat is still safely tucked underneath, he crashes. Just an hour or so, he tells himself. Enough to recharge before Hargrove comes over. Then he’ll take care of his ankle and be ready to go. Hopefully.

Maybe he’ll even get lucky enough to enjoy a dreamless nap.

As he buries his face into the armrest and hopes for that enticing and restful oblivion that he can never seem to achieve, he drifts into a dream-fueled sleep.

~~

A five-year-old Steve sat in the living room, building the town of Hawkins with his Legos. Once he put the finishing piece on their house, he leaned back and inspected his work. He hoped that his parents would be proud of his model town. They always told him that, when he got older, he would have to live and breathe his work to amount to something. To be _worth_ something.

Now he knew that he wanted to create things when he grew up—buildings, towns, cities, _amusement parks_. He wanted to build—to _design_—all of it. His kindergarten teacher had told him that what he was describing was the role of an archi… an architect.

So now he knew.

He wanted to be an architect when he grew up.

He hoped his parents would be proud of him for already figuring it out. For already knowing what he was going to do when he got older. For practically living and breathing his work already.

When his father walked in, Steve’s head flew up and he bounced with excitement.

“Dad”—

His glee melted away in an instant as he watched his father’s leg crash into his carefully crafted replica of Hawkins, tearing down houses and buildings and schools and their _house. _

Immediately, tears welled up.

His father just grunted. “Jesus, Steven. You can’t find a more suitable place to play with your toys? This living room is a disaster.”

“I wasn’t playing. I was _building_.”

His father cut him off again, kneeling down so that he was eye-level with his son. “Wipe those tears away, please. Boys don’t cry over silly little things like toy messes. I need to talk to you about something much more serious. Much more _adult._”

Steve wiped his eyes with his fists and stared at his father’s stern face. “What did you want to talk about, daddy?”

His father seemed to grimace at his address. “Now that you’re five, it’s time to start putting away some of these childish things. And it’s certainly time for your mother and me to stop allowing such childish behavior. _Daddy _and _mama _are words that toddlers use.”

The cold tone washed through Steve and caused his lip to quiver. He didn’t understand. He was only five. He wouldn’t grow up for a long time.

That’s what his teacher said, anyway.

But he stayed silent, because he knew that his father wasn’t finished.

“Before you were born, your mother and I traveled quite a bit for very important business endeavors. Now that you’re older, it’s time for us to resume these ventures.”

Steve leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his middle. What did his father mean? His parents were leaving? Was he going with them?

They’d never gone anywhere as a family before. Hawkins was their entire world.

It was all Steve knew.

“You’re still a little too young to stay at home by yourself, so your Uncle Dan is going to stay with you while we’re away.”

A spark of fear gripped the five-year-old.

His parents were going to leave him behind. What…_why…_he didn’t understand.

“You’re…leaving?” His voice came out tiny and wavy as he tried to blink away the tears. Because he knew by his father’s frown that the man did not approve of this reaction.

“Oh, hush.” His father waved his hand and glanced away. “We’ll only be gone for a month or so. Your uncle is really looking forward to spending some quality time with you and I expect you to be on your best behavior for him.”

“My…uncle?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Steven. You need to pay attention when I’m speaking to you. Have a little respect. Stop acting like a clueless infant. Yes, Uncle Dan. I just went over this with you two seconds ago.”

Steve cringed at his father’s annoyance and stared down at the floor. At the mess of Legos that was once Hawkins. The tears came back with a vengeance and he couldn’t stop a few from straying down his puffy cheeks.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember an Uncle Dan, from a family holiday or the grocery store or anywhere else. He didn’t remember ever meeting an uncle. Or an aunt. Or grandparents. Or even cousins.

He didn’t think he _had _any family other than his mother and father. And he was almost certain that he didn’t know whoever his parents invited to look after him.

That knowledge knotted his stomach.

“…Uncle Dan?” He repeated, like it might make the image of this mysterious man suddenly appear in his head. It didn’t.

“Steven, really. You can’t even be bothered to remember the people who belong to _your own family_?” His father sounded angry now. Fed up. “Honestly, I don’t know how you’re ever going to amount to anything in your life. Uncle Dan took you to see the fireworks, remember?”

Steve did not, but he realized that shaking his head would only make things worse. “Sure,” he lied, tongue heavy. “I remember.”

“Good. Your uncle would be so hurt to hear that you don’t even remember him.”

Steve merely nodded, because he felt like that was what was expected of him.

His father stood up and brushed off his pants. Looking down at Steve one last time, he said, “He should be here soon. So, please, clean up this mess. We’ll be in the kitchen enjoying an early dinner before our flight, so when you’re done, meet us in there so that you can say goodbye to your mother.”

With that, the man walked away, abandoning Steve to his destroyed replica of Hawkins.

The boy closed his eyes and once again tried to picture this Uncle Dan. To find the right image. So concentrated on figuring out who this man could be, or what this man could look like, he didn’t even notice the shuffling around him.

Suddenly, he felt a warmth on his shoulder. A hand.

He opened his eyes.

A man who was not his father, one with kind green eyes and a soft smile, knelt in front of him. “Hello, Steve. I’m really looking forward to us spending the next month together. Oh, kiddo, we’re going to have so much fun. I just know it.”

A promise. _Genuine_.

Steve took a moment to bask in the man’s attention. He didn’t even remember the last time an adult took the time to notice him, to pay attention to him, to be_ kind_ to him. Other than his teacher, anyway.

Uncle Dan’s words were enticing. _Comforting_.

Steve found himself almost looking forward to spending the next month or so with a guardian who would clearly acknowledge his existence. A guardian who might help him recreate his destroyed replica of Hawkins. One who would almost certainly play other games with him too.

Entranced by the tenderness in the man’s face—so different from the coldness that he found in his parents’ faces—Steve leaned into the man’s gentle touch, craving more.

A dull ache that he couldn’t quite place broke through Steve’s trance, and suddenly, he realized that something was wrong.

The man’s kind green eyes began to glow and twist and blaze. They seared through Steve’s skin, and the boy felt blistering heat prickle at the hairs on his arms before invisible flames began to consume him, rapidly melting away layers of skin.

The fingers gripping his shoulder seemed to grow and harden into sharp, jagged branches before plunging into his soft, scorching flesh. These branches were going to tear him apart from the inside. He knew this with a kind of certainty that terrified him. And he knew that he couldn't do anything to stop it.

_Helpless_.

All he could do was scream for help in an empty house. 

Listen to his shrieks as they echoed off hollow walls. 

_Hopeless_.

No one would hear his screams.

~~

Steve jolts awake confused and sweaty, his ankle throbbing.

As far as his dreams went, this one felt rather tame compared to the others. The monsters didn’t even bleed in until the very end.

So, that’s something at least.

He’s so tired of the constant, nightmare-fueled sleep. Well, not nightmare-fueled this time.

_Memory_-fueled.

This hadn’t been a dream at all. At least, not until the very end.

Rather, this had been a vivid memory. A memory he’d tried to bury deep within himself. He thought he’d succeeded, but now he realizes the truth.

Memories always resurface.

He just doesn’t understand _why_ he’s dreaming of this memory now.

Then he tunes back into the dull ache vibrating from his wounded ankle.

Maybe there really _was_ another monster out there in the woods with them. Maybe that monster has infected him somehow.

Maybe some invisible creature scratched his ankle with poison claws. Shot him up with enough juice to start making him remember things that he’s spent his whole life trying to forget. Because who wants to remember the first time their parents abandoned them?

And now this monster, through whatever poison it's injected Steve with, is invading all those buried memories. Tainting them in a way that made them—

A knock interrupts his wandering thoughts. Shit.

That _has _to be Hargrove.

Steve limps toward the door while trying to blink away the fatigue.

Once he reaches the foyer, he stares at the door for a moment. _You can handle this. Stop acting like a fucking baby about it. Just get over yourself and open the goddamn door._

Steve lets out one more long, steadying breath before turning the knob and cracking open the only barrier standing between him and one of his living, breathing nightmares.

Even with his hazy, post-sleep gaze, Steve still manages to make out the Hargrove-shaped silhouette perched on his doorstep.

"Wake you?"

Yep. This is it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank you all for reading and for the comments/kudos. Your lovely comments gave me some much needed inspiration and motivation.
> 
> My apology for taking awhile to update is an 8300-word chapter. (Also, I have never had--and still don't have--a beta reader, so I ask that you forgive my mistakes.)
> 
> As always, please mind the tags.
> 
> Enjoy!

Neil finally comes home early Monday morning.

Billy and Maxine are in the living room, gathering their school supplies, when the front door bursts open and the man stumbles in with mussed hair and bloodshot eyes.

Even in his ragged appearance—with his wrinkled clothes and shadowy cheeks and the stubble speckling his unshaven face—his piercing glare manages to pin Billy down.

The man’s hard stare grips at Billy in a way that claws at the teen’s throat and squeezes his still-aching neck.

Billy closes his eyes and tries to remember how to breathe. Wills the chokes bubbling up at the memory of his stolen voice and the icy fear of succumbing to suffocation away.

“Where’s Susan?” Neil growls, voice wrecked with a sleepless, alcohol-fueled weekend.

Billy watches Max’s eyes shift toward that closed bedroom door and knows immediately that Neil is still locked out.

Fan-fucking-_tastic_.

He had hoped Susan’s brief emergence yesterday, from whatever abyss she’d lost herself in, would guarantee her _actual _presence when Neil finally returned from his weekend-long bender.

He should have known better.

Even when Susan attempted to play the part of an attentive mother, even when she prepared a feast and fussed over her charges, there was still an…_emptiness _in her. And Billy still doesn’t understand it. Still can’t figure out how to handle it. How to _fix _it.

He just wants her to _be _there.

Clearly, though, today is not the day.

But Billy doesn’t have time for the pangs of disappointment pulsing in his chest.

All he knows right now is that Neil _can’t _know that Susan has locked herself inside the master bedroom. Not until Billy and Max are both safely out of the house, anyway. Not if they want to get to school on time.

Or at all.

Billy takes a steadying breath. “I’m sure she’ll be up soon, sir.”

Neil’s glare releases Billy and lingers on the closed bedroom door, and Billy feels tendrils of dread beginning to churn in his gut.

He doesn’t know if Susan’s going to open the door soon.

He doesn’t know if Neil’s going to try his hand at the knob _right now. _

But he _does _know he doesn’t want to wait around and find out.

He and Max can’t afford to.

“C’mon, Maxine.” Billy says pointedly, though it’s more for Neil’s benefit than his stepsister’s. “It’s time for school.”

The redhead looks over at Neil with guarded uncertainty and a flicker of fear before her blue eyes ice over and she scurries out the front door. It’s clear from Neil’s face that he _approves _of Billy acting like a “good” big brother by taking Max to school.

Billy can let Neil think this. He can bite his tongue. As long as Neil thinks Billy’s actions are for _his _benefit. As long as Neil thinks that the relentless lessons about respect and responsibility are getting through. As long as Billy can keep his stepsister away from his father without seeming like he’s _trying _to keep his stepsister away from his father.

Billy watches Neil collapse onto the tattered couch before he turns toward the door himself. Pausing before he walks through the doorway, he briefly considers telling Neil that they won’t be home for dinner this evening. But then he thinks better of it.

Resolves to just attempt to call Susan from the payphone at school around lunchtime and cross his fingers that she actually answers when he rings.

Billy spares Neil one last glance before walking out the door and booking it to his car.

Neither he nor Max say anything as Billy backs out of the driveway and they begin the trek to school. As the silence in the car lingers, Billy thinks about the potential chaos awaiting them when they eventually head home.

Returning to that god-forsaken house at some point in time is inevitable—necessary even. It’s clear, though, that the _later _they return tonight, the better. Because Billy’s neck still aches from the last time he stumbled into one of Neil and Susan’s fights and the quiet tension in the living room felt cloying and foreboding.

Really, the latter could be said for most nights. But Billy never knows how or when Neil’s going to physically lash out or demand respect or insist on the need for _discipline. _Billy just knows that today is a day to stay away.

Once Neil discovers that locked door…well, Neil and Susan could very well be at each other’s throats. And while Billy can’t get through to a dissociating Susan who continues to block out the world around her, he can at least make sure he and Max find other dinner plans tonight.

Because the best thing to do right now is to try to let the situation that is currently brimming defuse as much as possible in their absence.

To try not to get caught in any kind of crossfire. To hope that _something _in their lives will work out without costing bruises or bloody noses or tears or terror or a mother’s silence.

From the corner of his eye, Billy watches Max hunch forward, curl around herself, and bite her lip. She looks ready to say something, but she also looks shaky and uncertain.

With one hand gripping at the wheel and one hand tugging at a blond curl, Billy waits in the silence. Briefly, he wonders if she might bring up this past weekend’s events. If she might bring up _last night’s _events_. _

The mere thought of discussing last night makes the fingers on his left hand curl into the steering wheel so tightly that his nails start to dent the leather.

Neither of them are ready to have _that _conversation. Not in any meaningful way.

Truly, Billy doesn’t believe that they’ll ever be ready to talk about their shit-show of a life. And…why would they even _want _to?

But, the need to keep Maxine informed—aware—_prepared—_forces a bit of conversation anyway.

So, Billy takes it upon himself to break the quiet. “You’re not grounded anymore. Do you have somewhere to go or…someone to hang out with after school?”

The words come out harsh and biting and Billy bristles at the sound. While he knows that Maxine is used to hearing the venom in his voice, he doesn’t know if she’s learned to recognize when the poison is directed at someone else. In this case: his father.

Glancing over at his stepsister, he sees a spark of understanding begin to shadow her freckled face as she takes Billy’s loaded question for the warning it is.

“Uh…yeah.” She shifts in her seat and continues to chew on her lip, as if she’s thinking about her options. “Sure. I can go over to El’s.”

_El._

The name sounds vaguely familiar, but Billy doesn’t recognize it. “Who the hell is El?”

“She’s the police chief’s…daughter.”

Billy does_ not_ miss the way Max trips over the word _daughter. _The stumble prickles at his skin and instantly has him on alert. Sure, the unsettling fact that Maxine is friends with a cop’s kid offers its own set of worrying issues, but Billy _knows _that there’s more to it.

Something here feels off.

In the same way that finding Maxine at the Byers’ house with all her creepy friends the night he beat the ever-living shit out of Steve fucking Harrington felt off.

El.

Police Chief.

Jim. Jim Hopper.

_El._

Billy knows that, a lifetime ago, the Hawkins police chief had a daughter and a wife.

And then he didn’t.

And now…a daughter, but a different one.

Adopted recently. Jane, isn’t it?

_Jane _Hopper.

“Isn’t his daughter’s name Jane?” Billy grits out, trying to sound as neutral as possible even though he wants to reach over, grip Max’s shoulder, and demand some _real _answers. To finally understand at least _one _of the weird, off-kilter things in this shit town.

Billy can sense Max’s shoulders tensing. More red flags pop up.

Fighting the urge to slam on the brakes and dig into whatever this town’s messy secrets are or whatever Max is involved in, Billy instead fumbles for a cigarette. He tries to settle the alarm bells going off in his head as he brings his cigarette to his mouth.

Whatever they’ve developed over the weekend, Billy’s certain that it’s still too fragile for sharing secrets. He also understands that threatening Maxine or demanding answers might shatter this tentative…_bond. _

Is that what this is?

A _bond_?

Billy scoffs internally. Of course not. Can’t be. Billy doesn’t _bond _with people. He simply becomes whatever they imagine him to be so that he can _survive. _Like a chameleon. Ghost-like and adaptable.

Building relationships with other people takes his focus away from trying to get by.

So, why then does he feel concern at the prospect of potentially destroying a non-existent relationship by demanding that Maxine share what she knows about the creepy-ass town they’ve been forced to live in?

But bond or no bond, Max is his responsibility.

Really, that’s the whole point.

Isn’t it?

As the cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth, he stifles his mess of thoughts, shifts in his seat, and fishes for the lighter in his jean pocket.

“Her name _is _Jane.” Max huffs as she reaches over and takes Billy’s lighter straight out of his hand. When he quirks an eyebrow at her, she simply sighs, leans toward him, and lights his waiting cigarette with a disapproving glint in her eye. “I don’t want _both _of your hands off the wheel, thanks.”

As he takes in a deep drag, Maxine leans back into her seat. “Her friends call her El.”

Billy nearly chokes at Maxine’s simple, nonchalant reply.

What the hell kind of a nickname is that, anyway? El. That doesn’t even… Billy shakes his head a bit because he can’t quite comprehend the _why _of that and it’s clear that Max isn’t going to provide an explanation.

Taking another drag, Billy swallows down the urge to know more. Because whatever bizarre thing is going on, whatever Max is connected to with her freaky friends, this _El_ is still the police chief’s daughter and a good refuge for his stepsister.

“Cool,” Billy says after a long beat of heavy silence. “Do you think you can, uh, stay there for dinner too? Just find me in the parking lot after your last bell and give me the address.”

“Sure.”

Billy tosses his spent cigarette out the window. “I’ll pick you up around 8 or so? And make it look like a casual thing, got it? Last thing we need is a cop sniffing around our business.”

While Billy senses that the police chief has bigger concerns than the domestic affairs of the town’s residents, he can’t help but be a bit wary anyway.

At nearly eighteen, a cop opening up any kind of investigation or calling in CPS out of concern for Maxine would be a disaster for Billy.

He’s almost _out. _Almost able to fend for himself without any legal repercussions or climbing over some bullshit red tape. And then, when he finally has his independence—his _freedom—_he can figure it all out for himself.

Maybe figure it out for Max too.

But if they suddenly have to start dealing with nosy cops and social workers making house calls and the possibility of separation, then Billy won’t be able to look after Max _or _Susan.

He doesn’t understand when he started caring about that, but he knows with his entire being that he does.

“Yeah, Billy.” Max’s response comes out tight and heavy, like all the fear and desperation and helplessness and fatigue is rapidly boiling up to the surface, ready to break through at any moment. Billy’s breath hitches at the weight of those two simple words.

Maxine finds Billy in the campus parking lot after her last bell to deliver the chief’s address. He’s leaning on the Camaro’s bumper, halfway through his entire pack of cigarettes. When she reaches him, she pushes a folded piece of paper into his chest. Upon unfolding it, Billy finds a hand-drawn…_map?_...scrawled over the entire page.

He sees Xs and Os and squiggly lines. Circles shaded in with pencil. Unshaded rectangles and triangles.

Billy tosses the butt of his cigarette onto the pavement and crushes out the remaining embers with the sole of his right shoe as he squints down at the drawing in front of him. “What the hell is this? I said I wanted _an address_. Not a goddamn treasure map.”

Max grunts a little and rolls her eyes. She reaches forward and flips the paper in his hand over to reveal an address scribbled on the other side before stepping back and folding her arms across her chest. “I _did _get an address for you. But I also had El draw you a map. To help you avoid the booby traps around the perimeter.”

The… “_What_?”

The wind blows red strands of hair over Max’s face as she turns her head to the side and scans the lot for her friends. “Chief Hopper and El live in a cabin that's kind of...off the beaten path, and Hopper sets booby traps around the property. My friends and I know where the traps are and how to avoid them, but _you _don’t. So I had El draw you a map for when you come pick me up.” She pauses and turns her fierce blue gaze back to Billy. “_You’re welcome._”

Glancing back down at the paper, Billy’s mind feels thick and hazy. And his skin feels prickly again.

He flips the paper back to the side with the map and tries to make sense of what he’s looking at. If the jaggedly sketched trees on the outer edges of the map are any indication, the police chief lives in the middle of the woods. Apparently surrounded by homemade traps to keep out any intruders. What kind of a cop…

Who…or _what _is this police chief hiding from, anyway?

Shoving those thoughts aside, Billy flattens the page out on the top of the bumper and makes a decision. This map proves that he can’t just ignore the strange anymore. He needs real answers. And if that ultimately puts him and Max at odds again, then so be it.

Waving Max over to the car, he tells her, “You’re going to explain this weird-ass shit to me later. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not this week. But definitely _soon._ Because if you want to keep hanging out with your party of freaks, then I have some questions.”

His tone leaves no room for argument.

Really, he has an entire _book’s _worth of questions.

New, fragile, and still _very_ breakable…_bond_ aside, he can’t in good conscience turn a blind eye to the bizarre bullshit that prickles at his skin and _feels… _off. Wrong. Not right.

Foreboding. Sinister, even.

His own sanity, and maybe Maxine’s safety, depend on him understanding _something _about this place.

Max looks ready to object, but Billy holds up his left hand and points to the map still flattened out on top of his bumper.

“But for right now, I just want you to explain what I’m looking at here.”

As Billy coaxes his Camaro out to the police chief’s cabin in the middle of the woods, he manages to avoid any and all potential traps around the property. Once he reaches the cabin, he simply waits in his idling car with the radio turned up to an obnoxious volume.

There is absolutely no way that he is going up to the front porch and knocking on a _police chief’s _door.

No fucking way.

So, instead, he turns the music up some more and hopes that the rumbling bass is loud enough for Maxine to hear. Waits for the thumping to reach her ears and clue her in that her ride’s ready and waiting for her outside.

Briefly, he considers honking the horn, but he doesn’t much feel like getting shot by a cop and figures that he’s already taking a calculated risk with the blaring music.

It takes the hair metal method twenty minutes to achieve the desired results.

As soon as Billy begins to rethink how to signal to his stepsister that he’s here to pick her up, Maxine emerges from the cabin, strides over to the Camaro, and slumps into the passenger’s seat after slamming the car door shut. Billy leans forward to turn the music down while she glares at him with a ferocity that he finds both slightly amusing and a little bit scary.

“You’re welcome _again._” She tells him.

“For what?”

“Hopper says that the next time you pick me up, you have to do it properly. Or else.”

Properly. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you have to come up to the door, dumbass.”

Billy wants to respond _like hell, _but after observing the fire in his stepsister’s eyes, the words fizzle out. Nodding noncommittally, Billy turns the music back up and shifts out of park before carefully navigating out of the police chief’s landmine of a property.

When Billy and Max return to the house, the door to the master bedroom is wide open.

Neil and Susan are lounging on the couch with bottles of beer in their hands, watching an old Western. Susan’s pressed into Neil’s side and one of Neil’s arms is wrapped around her shoulder.

The sight, while a relief, doesn’t do much to relax Billy. He knows how short-lived these little reprieves are. Within two days, the house will be tense and stuffy again. Thick with the promise of violence and terror.

This façade, the one with the wife and husband cuddling on the couch, attentive and affectionate, won’t last.

When Susan sees them walk in, she beams up at them, lifts herself up from the back of the couch, and leans out of Neil’s embrace. “Oh, good. You’re home! I was beginning to worry. Come join us. I can make some popcorn, if you’d like.”

Billy studies Susan’s face for a moment, trying to figure out how…_present _she is. The vacant, hopeless look she had on Friday is gone, but the empty, cheery expression she wore on Sunday is still there.

She reminds Billy of a porcelain doll with a painted smile and a hollow interior and it guts him.

Billy looks over at Max, whose blue eyes shine in a way that makes Billy want to pull Susan up from the couch and beg her to start acting like a mother. To beg her to take care of her daughter.

To teach Max about puberty and menstrual cycles and how to fucking _survive_ in this world instead of forcing the kid to wade through all these new, terrifying changes on her own. To help Billy figure out what the hell is going on with Max and her friends and this town so that he can make sure that the redheaded thorn in his side is_ safe_.

Because, honestly, Billy doesn’t know if he can do all of this alone.

But Billy’s arms simply hang limply at his sides as he watches Neil and Susan fawn over each other on the couch and tries to stifle the ever-growing helplessness and anger.

It’s clear from Neil’s frown that he does not want Billy and Maxine to join them in watching the movie. “I’m sure they have some homework to take care of, Susan. It’s already a bit late. And it is a school night, after all.”

Susan’s gaze flutters over all of them as she slowly nods and settles back into Neil’s embrace. “Oh, of course. Well, let me know if you need help with your work. There are some snacks in the kitchen to help fuel you.”

Neil’s arm tightens its hold around Susan’s shoulder. Max’s lip quivers before it steadies itself into a frown. After taking a moment to process the scene in front of her, Maxine scrunches her eyebrows in a way that Billy now recognizes as an effort not to cry and silently shuffles through the living room and down the hallway toward her bedroom.

Familiar pangs of disappointment pulse in his chest as Billy mumbles a “thanks” to Susan before trailing after Maxine.

***

Before Billy knows it, it’s Tuesday. The day he has to go over to Harrington’s and try not to punch the guy’s lights out again.

He’s really not looking forward to spending every Tuesday and Thursday evening for the foreseeable future at the Harrington household, but he _is _looking forward to not spending those nights anywhere near that hellhole that he’s supposed to call a home.

He pulls into the guy’s driveway after dropping Maxine off at the arcade and gazes through his windshield at the residence.

Harrington’s place puts the mini mansions Billy’s seen in movies at the cinema to shame. A little stunned at the size and appearance of the house, Billy decides to take a walk around the grounds before heading to the front door. As he looks around at the immaculate stone exterior, at the perfectly trimmed hedges, at the steaming pool in the back that apparently isn’t covered up for the winter season, he starts to feel like he’s casing the joint. Because there’s not really any other reason for someone like Billy to be looking at a place like this.

That thought makes him feel sick and inadequate. Makes his fists curl. It almost makes him want to punch Harrington’s face into the ground _again_.

Billy tries to suppress the anger and jealousy soaking into his bones as he steps onto the front porch and rings the doorbell.

It takes entirely too long for Harrington to finally open the door. Billy suspects that this could simply be because of the massive size of the place. Maybe it just takes that long to _get_ to the door. This possibility doesn’t make standing there, out of place, uncomfortable, and a bit chilly, any less irritating.

When Harrington finally does open the door, he only opens it a crack. Like he’s denying Billy access because Billy isn’t _good enough _to set foot in a house like this.

But then Billy takes in the guy’s pale, sweaty face and shadowed eyes.

The sight prickles at Billy’s skin in the same way that his conversation with Max about _El _did yesterday. In the same way that all the strange in this town prickles. But then he shoves the feeling aside and lets pure annoyance wash over him.

“Wake you?” Billy bites out.

Harrington _knew_ they were meeting today. It’s not Billy’s fault that the dumbass didn’t keep track of the time.

Harrington blinks and his glazed eyes slowly clear up. “No, I…uh… Yeah, sorry.”

Harrington makes no move to open the door any more than he already has, but Billy has no desire to spend his entire night standing on the Harrington porch, so he pushes his way inside.

Harrington stumbles out of the way and Billy takes in the interior. Large foyer. Massive staircase. Thick, dark curtains draped over tall, sash windows.

Everything looks perfectly placed and a little bit dusty.

Akin to the kind of model home that’s only ever used for show. The kind that no one actually lives in.

An untouched façade.

“Nice digs,” he says as his eyes wander. There’s a quietness to the house that he finds both comforting and unsettling. Harrington closes the door and leans on the frame, arms crossed like he’s embarrassed.

“Knew I had you pegged from the very start.”

“Um, what?” Harrington tilts his head and leans forward a bit.

“Spoiled little rich boy. Preppie. Had it in one, didn’t I?”

Harrington looks uncomfortable and Billy watches him lift himself from the doorframe and shift his weight from his left foot to his right before stiffening and then shifting his weight back to his left.

_Hurt, _Billy’s mind supplies.

Over the years, he’s learned to recognize any signs of weakness.

When you spend a chunk of your life hiding injuries and trying to twist them into something they never were by picking fights—well, then, sometimes you start sensing what others are hiding. Billy files this newfound information for later, just in case he needs it, before lifting his brow expectantly and fixing Harrington with an unamused stare.

Harrington shakes his head a little bit. “…sure. So, the project, right? We can work in the dining room. Or, really, wherever you want.”

“Lead the way, Harrington.”

Billy follows Harrington into a large, almost stuffy room with polished, hardwood floors, a stone table, and cherry-glazed china cabinets. Jealousy continues to carve itself into his bones and he begins to really resent Harrington.

As they settle into their seats at the dining table, Billy shrugs his jacket off and starts taking his English folder and his notebook out of his bag. He stops when he realizes that Harrington’s staring at his neck with a frown.

Fuck.

He knew that he should’ve worn a goddamn turtle neck.

“The fuck you staring at?” He snaps.

Harrington looks down at his hands and lets out a sigh, as if he’s in the midst of making a decision. Then he waves one hand toward Billy.

Toward his _neck_.

“What, uh…what happened there?”

The question lingers for a moment, because Billy hasn’t thought up a lie yet. Because he hasn’t needed to, really. Because everyone _expects _this kind of thing and because he really hadn’t counted on Harrington to question it. Because Billy figured that Harrington would follow the lead of everyone else in this stupid town and just accept Billy’s wounded physical state as _normal. _

As something that he brought upon himself. Standard. Expected.

_Deserved._

Billy’s lip curls up. “What, you don’t know what getting lucky looks like?”

Brown eyes widen in shock. “…what?”

“Should’ve figured you were a virgin. Wheeler is too much of a prude for you two to have ever _actually _fucked.”

Harrington’s mouth opens and closes like a fish until he finds his words. “Don’t talk about Nancy like…_Jesus_, Hargrove. Shut your fucking mouth.”

“Lighten up, pretty boy.” Billy glances down at his English notebook. He really just wants to get started on this project. The sooner they get started, the sooner he can get the fuck out of this house and away from Harrington. Drive around. _Fuck_ around. Be anywhere but here. Well, be anywhere but _home_, but _here_ isn’t shaping up too well either, so…

“It looks kind of…_painful_.” As irritating as it may be, it’s clear that Harrington is _not_ going to let this conversation die.

“Well, that’s the price you pay for rough sex. And let me tell you, pretty boy, it’s _definitely _worth it.” Billy rasps.

Harrington seems to pale a bit, but instead of responding to Billy, he just asks, “Can I…uh…can I help?”

This makes Billy pause. That’s not a question he’s used to and so he’s not quite sure how to respond.

“_How_?”

Harrington lifts himself from his seat and starts heading through the archway that seems to lead to the kitchen. He only pauses briefly to say that he has a first aid kit, before waving Billy along and continuing to walk away. Billy notes the slight limp in the guy’s right leg before he pushes himself up from the table.

He refrains from asking what Harrington’s even going to be able to do with a first aid kit. Bandage his neck? Put aloe on it?

He thinks that he and Max have been handling it just fine, thank you.

But he doesn’t say anything. Just follows the dark-haired teen into the gourmet kitchen. Seriously, _how rich are these people_?

Billy inspects the marble countertops. The island. The two sinks. The six-burner stove and three ovens. The refrigerator with French doors. Apparently a fucking _room _as big as his bathroom for their pantry.

Harrington emerges from the aforementioned pantry with not one—_but three—_first aid kits. Who the fuck has _three first aid kits_?

Now, Billy is itching to see what else the Harringtons have stashed away in that pantry. Without waiting for an invitation, he shuffles over to the place Harrington just emerged from and walks inside.

What he finds: enough supplies to feed a goddamn army.

The space is practically filled to the brim with cans of food and bottles of water and the kind of cookware that you take camping.

Really, the room feels a little bit like half a bomb shelter.

“What the fuck, Harrington?” He asks as he steps out of the pantry. “Are you and your parents, like, some of those apocalyptic nut jobs? Where are the guns? I bet you guys have a shit ton of survival gear out in that three-car garage, don’t you? Also, I’m not dying. And I probably don’t need anything that’s in those kits. But _you _might. For your leg.”

A sore throat and a bruised neck do _not _call for three fucking first aid kits.

At this point, they probably don’t even call for one. Harrington has more need for medical attention than he does.

Harrington glances up briefly before turning his attention back to the kits that he’s just set on the island. “Yeah, I _know_ we only need one. But I just wanted to make sure that I replenished some of the supplies over the weekend. I mean, I _thought_ I did, but I was really tired, and it doesn’t hurt to re-check since we’re going to use some of the stuff right now, anyway…”

Billy attempts to cut off Harrington’s rambling with more insistence that he has no need for any kind of medical attention at the moment. “Again, I don’t really need anything, but—wait. Replenish…re-check…you…”

_What?_

Harrington offers a fierce nod as he begins taking certain items out of the kits. Billy ignores what specific supplies Harrington seems to be gathering because he just wants to know why the guy has three first aid kits. It’s apparent that they get used pretty often, and Billy is burning to know about that too. And about all that unperishable food.

Everyone and everything around him just seems to get weirder and weirder and no one ever tells him anything. Billy’s beginning to suspect that the _whole town_ is hiding something from him. That everyone else is in on some crazy, fucked-up secret while he is condemned to be forever an outsider. Not worth telling. Maybe even the next one on the kill-list if the weird-ass shit this town’s involved in turns out to be some insane cult thing.

“Hold up, Harrington.”

Harrington freezes, his wide brown eyes finally meeting Billy’s cold gaze. “Can we just pause for a second so that you can tell me _why _this seems to be a thing for you? You lose fights that often? I’ve told you like ten times now, you need _to plant your fucking feet_.”

“I don’t…I’m not…I _don’t _lose fights that often, you jackass. Just because…you…Well, it doesn’t really matter does it? I look after a bunch of rambunctious kids who are budding into reckless young teenagers. It’s good to have this shit on hand.”

“Sure, Harrington. Whatever you say.”

Billy watches as the dark-haired teen opens his mouth to argue before his eyes go a bit glassy and he sways forward. Shaky fingers clutch at the edge of the countertop as Harrington leans his weight on it for support. Billy leans forward and squints at Harrington. Studying the state of the guy, Billy notes the clammy skin and the tiny tremors and how prominent the shadows under those brown eyes really are.

He wants to say something, but a heavy tongue and dry throat swallow his words. It’s probably best that he can’t think of any insults at the moment anyway, though he really does want to ask if Steve is sick or contagious or if whatever leg wound is festering under those jeans is infected. Instead, he waits.

Harrington works to steady himself before finally meeting Billy’s quizzical stare. “I have some painkillers here. For your neck. If you want them. And we can alternate between some ice and this heating pack while you’re here. Want some tea? I’ve got that too.”

Billy has no idea how to respond other than to just continue to stare at Harrington. This annoying, anger-inducing guy who is standing here in front of him, looking like death warmed-over, trying to _help. _Who is openly concerned about Billy’s visible wounds and attempting to _treat _those wounds.

Billy’s not sure how to handle it.

All he knows is that Harrington has sparked something deep within him that Billy doesn’t understand.

Harrington is looking at him expectantly, and Billy _still_ doesn’t know how to respond. Billy sighs and pushes down the burn in his throat. “Tea. Yeah, sure. With honey, maybe? Unless you’ve got something stronger…”

He lets that suggestion linger, because he _knows _that Harrington’s parents probably have some fancy whiskey somewhere. Billy imagines letting a few shots worth of high-priced liquor run down his throat and relaxing into the alcohol-induced burn. If his throat is going to burn anyway, he would much rather it be_ that_ way.

Harrington shakes his head. “Not with the painkillers you’re going to take.”

Billy sighs. “Fair enough, I guess.” Though, given the option, he would gladly take the painkillers and the alcohol _together_. “First, though, you’re going to take a seat right here and we’re going to fix up whatever is going on with your right leg.”

He can’t just let Harrington fuss over him like a frazzled mother hen. Something’s obviously not right with the guy, so he might as well return the favor.

Instantly, Harrington starts to protest. “No, I have to warm up the heating pad for you and boil some water for the tea. Get the ice pack. Oh, you need some water for the pills. Right. Just give me a minute so that I can get that all taken care of and then we can get back to work.”

Billy manages to suppress most of his anger and annoyance, but there’s an edge to his words that still creeps through when he grabs Harrington’s shoulders, guides the guy over to one of the bar stools by the counter, and pushes him onto the seat. “Sit the fuck down, Harrington. We’re taking care of your shit first.”

Harrington blinks up at him with wide brown eyes that look cloudy and confused. Great. _That’s_ probably not a good sign. “Now show me where it hurts.”

Even when Billy is trying to help the guy out, his tone drips with a certain kind of hostility. Harrington seems unaffected as he bends down and pulls up his right pant leg to reveal a nasty looking gash.

After taking in the sweat and blood and—_is that puss_?—in and around this gash that already looks on the verge of infection, Billy shuffles over to one of the first aid kits and grabs what he needs to treat and bandage the wound. “Need I remind you that you have not one, but _three_, first aid kits at your disposal? How—_why _have you not taken care of this injury already? At this point, you’re going to have to keep a real close eye on it, because it already looks like it could be infected. Your ankle might already be swelling. When did it happen, anyway?”

Harrington offers a small shake of his head. “It can’t_ possibly_ be infected.”

Billy finds Harrington’s calm certainty infuriating.

“I’m literally looking at physical evidence that suggests otherwise.” Billy resists the urge to add a flippant _dumbass _to the end of his retort. Probably not the best time to reiterate_ that_ sentiment. Regardless of the truth of it.

Harrington doesn’t budge. “Well, that’s not even possible.”

He says it as if it marks the end of the conversation, but Billy has never cared about bowling over this dark-haired, doe-eyed teen before.

“Uh huh. And why is that, pretty boy? Care to enlighten me?”

Billy pours some disinfectant onto a cotton swab and begins to dab at the wound. The hiss that Harrington releases at the act gives Billy a spark of sadistic satisfaction. Smirking, he pours more disinfectant onto the cotton swab and continues to dab and clean.

Harrington grits his teeth as Billy continues to work. “Because it takes _days _for an infection to develop, Hargrove, and this just happened, like, _four hours ago._”

Billy pauses his dabbing to process Harrington’s words. Four hours ago. _Today. _Once again, he looks at the state of the gash.

_Today. _

Billy finds that…surprising.

And, despite his conviction to not care, slightly alarming.

While this new information at least tells Billy that the idiot in front of him didn’t leave the wound completely unattended for _days_ like Billy initially suspected, it makes the state of the gash even more worrisome.

Ignoring the bristling concern, Billy strikes at Harrington with the tone he knows best. The one that mocks and criticizes. The one that guards him from the rest of the world. “And you didn’t take care of it right after it happened _why_?”

“I was _going _to. I just…wanted to nap first.” As Harrington tilts his head down sheepishly, some of his dark hair falls into his eyes.

Billy suppresses the growl rising in his throat. “_Jesus_, Harrington.” He takes a few calming breaths before scowling at the guy in front of him. “Ever heard of self-preservation?”

Glassy brown eyes harden. “_Fuck off, _Hargrove. Of course I take care of myself. If I didn’t, then I wouldn’t be able to take care of all those damn kids, now would I? Obviously, if I didn’t have any _real_ sense of self-preservation, then I wouldn’t be able to protect them. And if I couldn’t protect them, then I would be… This is just a one-off. You caught me at a bad time, because, I was just... a little drained. Just needed a power nap to make myself… I was going to take care of this when I got home, but I was just… _tired_.”

Sure, there’s some truth to Harrington’s ramble, but it’s certainly not hard to glimpse the lies in those words. Billy already knows firsthand that Harrington has no real sense of self-preservation. The guy would probably charge a goddamn bear to protect all those little shits without thinking twice. And tired…more like _exhausted. _

Even Billy can see that.

“Well, whatever. It doesn’t change the fact that this is _definitely _on the verge of infection.” There’s a finality to Billy’s words that Harrington must finally accept as Billy presses gauze on the gash and begins wrapping the wound with a bandage, because the dark-haired teen simply slumps onto the stool with hunched shoulders and stops pushing back.

When Billy finishes and straightens up, Harrington wipes budding sweat from his forehead, blinks away some of the glassiness in his eyes, and offers a small, hesitant smile. The “thanks” goes unspoken.

Not that Billy cares all that much, anyway.

“Your turn,” Harrington says as he shakily rises to his feet and begins to stumble around the kitchen.

“Sit back down, you idiot. I can do all that myself.”

“No, no. You’re a… guest. Sort of. And you’re hurt. It’s my responsibility to… I have to be… I need to get you what you need. Then we can get back to work. I promise.”

Resisting the urge to tell Harrington to sit down before he passes out, Billy rolls his eyes, lets out a particularly noisy groan of exasperation, and trails after Harrington so that he can help.

When they finally settle back into their chairs in the dining room table, Billy notices the time on the antique grandfather clock in the corner—8 _already_—and the lack of parents.

“Got the house to ourselves tonight, huh?” The jealousy continues to spread throughout his bones.

Harrington glances up from his unopened notebook. Something shifts in his eyes. “Yep.”

The tightlipped, one-word response piques Billy’s interest. Enough for him to ignore, for a few more minutes, the fact that they’re an hour into their first project meeting and they’ve gotten basically _nothing_ done. “So, where your folks at?”

“Um. Out. Dinner reservations.”

Billy notices that Steve’s hands are a bit shaky and that his face is more closed off than usual. He wants to pry. To goad. He can just _sense_ something under the surface. But they still haven’t even gotten started on this project and his English grade matters more to him than whatever Harrington seems to be hiding.

“Lucky us,” he mutters instead, finally opening up his notebook. “So, first thing’s first: we need to actually choose our text.”

“Right, so…um…” Harrington fidgets a bit in his seat and Billy thinks about reaching over the table with his fist and pressing the guy into the back of his chair to keep him still. Billy begins to lean forward, only to be interrupted by a wave of white noise.

Rather than diminishing, Harrington’s fidgeting seems to get worse as the white noise cuts out and then returns in short bursts. Harrington makes no mention of this background noise. Simply takes out the paper their teacher gave them containing the list of possible texts to choose from. Billy realizes that, unless he says something, Harrington will willfully ignore the irritating sound of fluctuating static.

“What the hell is that noise, Harrington?”

“Huh?” Harrington’s eyes don’t stray from the paper in front of him.

“That…white noise. The static. What the hell is that?”

Billy watches as Harrington’s cheeks tint toward a faint crimson. “Oh. That.”

“Yeah. _That_. Can you make it stop before I throw my fist into your face again?”

The faint crimson on the other teen’s face deepens as he nods and shuffles through another archway that leads toward a living room. Billy hears Harrington open and close a drawer and watches as he comes back with a walkie talkie that looks exactly like the one that Max stuffs under her pillow at night.

Now that the little communication device is closer, Billy can make out a soft but broken voice calling out for Harrington.

“St…eve….Are you…kay… Come in…St…? Steve?”

Billy feels both of his eyebrows lift up in judgement as he stares at the dark-haired teen and waits for an explanation.

Though, it seems that he might be waiting for a while, considering Harrington is too busy fussing with the knob to find the right channel to notice Billy’s silent criticism.

After what seems like an irritating eternity filled with irritating white noise, Harrington finally succeeds in switching his walkie talkie to the right channel.

“Steve, come in! Can you hear us? Are you okay? Come in, Steve. Steve?”

Harrington glances up at Billy with wide eyes, his face now completely flushed. “Uh…I’m here, Dustin. And this is, like, not a great time. Over.”

“Steve! You’re alive! Do you need help? Reinforcements? Any kind of assistance at all? Are you currently fearing for your life? Do you think that you might be fearing for your life at any point in the next few hours? Over.”

Clearly, this Dustin twerp missed the part where Harrington told him it was _not_ a great time to get in touch.

“_Not _a good time, Dustin. I’m busy. Over.”

A mess of static drowns Dustin’s protests before a new voice filters through the radio. _Maxine’s _voice.

What the hell?

“Hey, Steve? Can you tell Billy he doesn’t need to pick me up tonight? Hop will drive me home.”

Harrington’s brown eyes, the ones that have been actively wandering around the room skittishly while avoiding Billy _entirely_, finally reluctantly settle as Harrington gazes straight into Billy’s eyes in a way that makes Billy squirm. He feels as if the guy has just pierced through his flesh and blood and into his soul.

“Uh...sure, Max. I’ll let him know.”

Then, without waiting for another response from Maxine’s gang of nerds, Harrington turns the walkie talkie off and takes it back into the living room before settling back into his chair at the dining table. “So…uh…where were we again?”

Billy can’t help himself. “What the _fuck_, Harrington?”

Harrington blinks owlishly, like he doesn’t understand the issue. “Huh?”

Billy crosses his arms against his chest and leans his back against his stiff, uncomfortable chair. “Really? Those stupid little shits _really_ think they need to check up on you while we’re working on a goddamn school project? Like they think I’m going to… _murder _you and bury you in your own backyard?”

Absolute rage is pulsing through Billy’s veins. He wants to be offended.

To be angry.

To be _hurt_.

As he steadies his breathing, though, he wonders if he can really be_ any_ of those things. After all, he’s terrorized _all _of them.

A little defeated by those thoughts, he offers one last winded comment. “And, anyway, I thought _you _were supposed to be the babysitter.”

Harrington’s lip curls up in bitter amusement. “So did I. Anyway, back to work? Where were we again? Picking a text, right?”

That jolts Billy up from the back of the chair. Right.

They haven’t even chosen a _text _yet.

Jesus.

This project really _is_ going to be a never-ending affair.

“Yeah. You were staring at that sheet for a bit before the…interruption. Any thoughts?”

“Um… I don’t know. What do you want to read?”

Billy sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose as he prays for a little bit—even just a _tiny _bit—of patience. “You know it’s not a matter of what we want to read, right? Please tell me that you know we’re going to be reading _all_ of these books over the last two quarters. I mean, there aren’t that many to choose from.”

“_What?_”

Harrington’s bursting with a kind of horror that Billy doesn’t quite understand. What the hell did the guy _think_ this project was when Billy first explained it to him, anyway?

“Jesus, Harrington. I thought we went over all of this already. We’re going to read, like, one book every couple weeks until the end of the school year. Starting after Christmas break. The next unit she was talking about? Yeah, that's going to last until graduation. Bright side, we only have to do a lesson plan and an activity and discussion questions and shit for _one_of these books. And we’re going to choose our top three right now, turn our choices in tomorrow, and hope that our first preference is still available for the taking.”

“And…when is this due again?”

Oh, for the love of… “_Jesus_, Harrington. That depends entirely on the book that we choose to work with and how Ms. Fenrir schedules everything out. And, considering the conversation that we are currently having…well, with any luck, we won’t have to do the presentation and lesson part of all of this until the end of the goddamn school year.”

Though, Billy isn’t sure if he can handle working with Harrington for the last half of his senior year. He wonders if it would be better to see _a lot_ of the former king for a month or two while working toward this project and then presenting early so that they could get it all over with or if it would be better to try for a slot at the end of the school year and potentially take a couple months-break from these meetings that are almost certainly going to drive Billy insane.

“That’s…potentially a long time.”

“Think of it this way, pretty boy. We get ourselves signed up for the end of the year, then you can consider this your English final. _And_, once we get everything set up, we can read our chosen text on our own and take a nice long break from these sure-to-be unbearable meetings to save my fist the agony of having to punch away that dopey look on your face.”

An hour later, they’ve narrowed their texts down to _1984_, _Things Fall Apart_, _Of Mice and Men, _and _T__he House on __Mango Street _and Billy can’t help but notice that Harrington’s parents _still _aren’t around. He starts to get that prickly sensation again because he _knows _that he’s missing something. And Billy _hates _feeling like that. “Not to take us away from a decision that we truly _do_ need to make tonight, but…uh…that sure is a long dinner reservation, Harrington.”

“Oh. Uh…yeah. Fancy restaurant outside of town. Bit of a drive, really, so…they said they might get a room or something and come back in the morning. I guess that’s what they decided to do.”

Billy tilts his head at the tone. Forced nonchalance. A tone he uses often enough. Of course he would recognize it. But he won’t push it. Not right now, anyway. They still have school shit to do, and Billy really _does_ care about his English grade.

Almost as an afterthought, Harrington adds, “It is getting pretty late, though. You don’t have a curfew to worry about? Parents waiting up for you?”

Resisting the urge to sneer, Billy shakes his head. “Old man works late on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Not _all_ the time. But often enough.”

He glances over toward Harrington, whose face is still flushed and clammy, though the brunet’s eyes aren’t quite as glassy anymore, and considers asking after the guy’s ankle. Instead, he takes out a blank piece of paper so they can rank their book choices.

Still, Billy can’t help but wonder about the three first aid kits and the bomb shelter-like pantry and the nasty looking gash and the absent parents.

_None of your business. Absolutely none of it. You certainly wouldn’t want him in yours._

Billy reaches for the half-empty bottle of painkillers Harrington gave him, pops another one into his mouth, and washes it down with a swig of his tea before picking up his pen.

They have work to do.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels a little rushed, but here's another chapter. Thank you all so much for reading and for the kudos and for the lovely, motivating comments. I always want to reply to them, but then my anxiety keeps me from doing so. Just know that it means a lot to me that you're taking this journey with me.
> 
> As always, please mind the tags.
> 
> Enjoy!

~~

Two weeks after his parents left him for the first time, a five-year-old Steve found himself huddled in the corner of his room, convinced that a clown-like monster lurked in his closet, waiting for him to fall asleep so that it could steal him away in the middle of the night. Earlier, at Tommy’s house, the two boys had hidden behind the living room couch, catching terrible glimpses of the movie _It. _

His freckled friend had told him that it would be fun to spy on his parents and see what they were doing, but Steve really didn’t find it all that fun. In fact, he had been almost relieved when Tommy’s father caught them and shooed them outside, telling them that it was a movie for adult eyes only.

And now that it was getting closer to his bedtime, Steve couldn’t get the image of a terrifying killer clown that lived in the sewers and preyed on children out of his head. He was convinced he had his very own killer clown in his closet ready to whisk him into the unknown.

Uncle Dan didn’t laugh at his fears when he spoke them out loud in the way that his parents might have. Instead, the man sat down on Steve’s bed and patted at the space beside him, inviting Steve to join him. Once Steve settled onto the bed, Uncle Dan rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Oh, Stevie. It’s okay. What you saw at Tommy’s? That was just a movie. It was all pretend. Sometimes, adults like to watch stuff that…frightens them. But it’s all fiction. No one’s in any _real_ danger.”

Steve stared up at his Uncle Dan in confusion. The idea that people would willingly watch something so scary…he didn’t understand that at all. Why would they do that to themselves? The world was terrifying enough _without _all the pretend scary.

If it had been his father or his mother, perhaps Steve would have kept his confusion to himself. After all, they would likely reprimand him for not understanding why these horror movies even existed. But this was Uncle Dan. And Steve had really come to like Uncle Dan these past two weeks.

The man treated him kindly. _Gently_. Other than his kindergarten teacher, Steve had never experienced that before. And he found that he quite liked the attention and the affection. The more he got, the more he craved.

This man that Steve didn’t even remember, but who he was slowly growing attached to, didn’t act like it was a chore to be around Steve and Steve didn’t feel like a nuisance for breathing too loudly or making his presence known.

Uncle Dan watched movies with him, let him eat ice cream at night, read him bedtime stories. Helped him rebuild his model town with Legos. Uncle Dan even took Steve to the park. Took him fishing. Promised to teach him how to ride his bike.

Steve felt _comfortable_ with Uncle Dan. Safe. Happy even. He knew that it was okay to ask questions, to act like a kid, to _play_. He had been terrified when his parents left him alone with this stranger of a man, but now…it felt right.

“But…why?”

Uncle Dan offered a kind smile as he lifted his hand from Steve’s shoulder and reached up to ruffle the small brunet’s messy mop of hair. “Ah, well, kiddo, that is a very simple question with a very complicated answer. Some people find movies like that…cathartic—really, it’s not something for you to worry about. I can tell you all about it when you’re older. For now, all you need to know is that all that scary stuff—it’s not real. There’s no clown living under the sewers waiting to take away other kids. And there’s no clown in your closet.”

Steve stared up at sincere green eyes and found himself starting to relax. “You promise?”

Chuckling, Uncle Dan shifted closer to Steve and pulled the boy into a sideways embrace with his right arm before offering his left pinky. “_Pinky_ swear.”

Tentatively, Steve reached out with his own pinky. After they shook on Uncle Dan’s promise, Steve glanced back toward his closet, still feeling a little tense. Green eyes followed his gaze before offering another gentle squeeze. “Tell you what. How about I sleep in here with you for good measure? If you want. Then you’ll know for sure that nothing’s going to get you. Because I’ll be here to protect you.”

Steve found himself nodding, elated at the idea. Uncle Dan in his room would _guarantee _no monsters stealing him away.

“Okay,” he agreed easily. “You can have the left side of the bed.”

“You got it, kiddo.”

In the morning, Steve woke up cocooned in warmth, Uncle Dan’s arms wrapped around him. A strange feeling washed over him as he curled into the cuddle. His parents never snuggled with him. Never patted him on the shoulder. Never ruffled his hair. Never hugged. But here Uncle Dan was…embracing him in their sleep.

A part of Steve was starting to wish that his parents would let Uncle Dan stay with them even after they came home. Maybe they would let the man live with them _forever_. Then maybe they wouldn’t yell so much or act annoyed as often. Then, maybe, because he would be spending so much of his time with Uncle Dan, his parents would start to miss him. Maybe, if he could show that he didn’t _need _them around, they would _want _to be around him more often. And then he wouldn’t be called selfish or greedy when he asked them to play a game or watch a movie or hang out with him. What a lovely thought—

The arms around Steve began to stiffen and tighten. No longer wrapped in a warm embrace, Steve felt the arms become sharp and jagged and _cold _as they snaked their way around his body—wrapping, _wrapping_, until their stiff grip constricted his lungs and the razor-like arms became splintered branches that punctured through his skin.

The more he struggled, the tighter the branches squeezed.

He had no way out.

He was…_helpless_. A mess of broken flesh and blood.

Steve’s cries for help came out as painful, winded huffs. He couldn’t _breathe_. He couldn’t_ see_. These rope-like branches were going to tighten until he shattered into little pieces. Until there was nothing left of him. His silent screams echoed in his head, promising no hope.

~~

Steve wakes sweaty and feverish, stumbling off the couch and toward the kitchen, his ankle pulsing with pain. He doesn’t understand these memories-turned-nightmares. Doesn’t get why whatever invisible monster that might’ve scratched him and poisoned him with some kind of unworldly venom would want to force Steve to think about the past. To relive…to _remember…_before terrorizing him with all the monster shit.

What’s the _point_?

To weaken him? To feed off his pain? His fear? His anguish?

Steve doesn’t understand any of it. Which, really, isn’t that surprising, considering he barely ever understands _anything_. But these…these memory-fueled nightmares are confusing and exhausting and he just…he just wants this to stop.

He just needs to figure out how to get it all to stop.

Fumbling through the first aid kits that are now spread open on the kitchen counter, he finally finds what he’s looking for: another bottle of painkillers. Maybe he just needs to pop a few of these and everything will go away.

As he starts to shake a few of the pills into his hand, frantic thumps pound at the front door. Startled, he drops the bottle back onto the counter.

Frantically, he gathers the first aid kits and tosses them in a cabinet under the island before stuffing the bottle of pills in his pocket. The pounding gets louder. More frantic.

Terrified and disoriented, he stumbles toward the door. What if something’s wrong? What if one of the kids is hurt? What if Hopper has come to yell at him again? What if Hopper is here to tell him that Steve’s inadvertently caused the death of one of his chargers because they ventured back into the woods and he wasn’t there to protect them?

When Steve opens the door, he’s greeted with the party, sans Max, who blink up at him with wide, assessing eyes.

“Do you even _know _what time it is?” Dustin demands as the kids push their way inside.

Steve sighs and closes the door as they all gather in the foyer and study him. "Do you even _know _how to use a doorbell?"

None of them answer. They just stare up at him. Silently judging. 

The urge to shift from foot to foot nags at him, but he feels determined to keep his wounded ankle a secret. So he just stands there, crosses his arms, and stares them down.

“Sure, come on in,” he mutters pointedly as he waits for some kind of explanation as to why they’re all here. As to why they’re practically assaulting him in his own house.

“Nancy said you weren’t in school today,” Mike said, sounding a little annoyed. His face is carefully passive, but Steve’s almost certain that Mike didn’t want to make this house call. That the kid probably fought against the mere _idea _of it, but didn’t manage to deter the party.

So, here he is, supporting the wishes of his friends to check on his older sister’s dick of an ex-boyfriend.

Steve’s so consumed with those thoughts that the words Mike just spoke to him don’t register for a few moments. And then it hits him.

_Not in school. _

What the fuck?

No, he was…Hargrove just left not that long ago…

He…_missed school. _

It’s not Tuesday night anymore. Clearly. According to these little brats, anyway.

So what? He slept…_all day_? No, he _couldn’t_ have slept all day. Not possible.

He was exhausted…from nightmare-plagued sleep…yeah, but…

Bewildered, he starts to wonder how many nightmares he might have actually had over the last fourteen or so hours and why he only remembers…_that _one.

What…_how _could he have slept through...Surely, he would’ve…

“I missed school?” He asks faintly, still trying to process that fact.

“It’s approximately 4pm, Steve. And it’s Wednesday.” Lucas confirms, just as Dustin barrels over toward Steve and begins pacing around him, searching him up and down with inquisitive eyes.

“I told everyone that we needed to check on you right after the last bell. You can’t just have your first project meeting with Billy Hargrove and then not show up to your classes and expect us _not _to check on you and make sure you’re not dead. I mean, Max tried to convince us that you were probably fine, and that if you _weren’t_ fine, she would deal with her lunatic of a stepbrother herself, but come on! She should know how this goes by now. Of _course _we’re going to come see you to make sure your dead body isn’t floating face-down in your pool or something. Did he hurt you? He hurt you, didn’t he? It's okay, buddy. You can tell us.”

Steve shakes his head, feeling a little numb. Everything feels…unreal. _Floaty_. He’s still not even convinced that they’re all really here.

Maybe he’s still dreaming.

Mike fixes him with a look of utter judgment…and perhaps a flicker of concern. It washes over Steve in a way that blankets him in shame. In a way that embarrasses him and makes him want to hide in one of his parents’ closets. Steve tries in vain to push those feelings down.

“Seriously, you couldn’t even manage to go a day without Hargrove kicking your ass again?” Mike asks with a frown.

Steve opens his mouth to reply, to tell Mike that's a gross exaggeration, but nothing comes out. Exasperated, he sighs and motions toward the living room. “Well, you guys have already made the trek over here. Might as well make yourselves comfortable. Snacks?”

Dustin huffs and throws his hands up as he starts making his way to the living room. “Fine, yes. Snacks! But as soon as you’ve gathered them—and maybe some drinks too—you’re going to tell us e_xactly _what happened last night and why you weren’t in school today. And we’re not leaving until we’re satisfied with your answers!” he calls.

Mike and El and Lucas follow behind him, clearly a little more uncertain about being there in the first place. Good, Steve thinks. Because, really, they have no right to just…_bombard _him like this.

Will stands in the foyer for a moment and watches his friends walk away before turning back to Steve. “I can help with the snacks.” He offers.

Steve tries to smile in thanks, but he fears that the pain he’s trying to suppress may have just twisted this attempt into a grimace. He appreciates Will’s offer to help, but he really doesn’t want the boy to notice his limp and he’s not sure how to keep it a secret if the kid’s going to be following him around the kitchen.

Sighing, he says, “Sure, bud. Sounds great. You remember where the kitchen is, right? And the pantry? Why don’t you start searching out some snacks and I’ll meet you in there as soon as I, uh, check the mail and…”

Will obeys immediately, and Steve’s sentence drifts off. He watches the wiry kid venture toward the kitchen and tries to gather his thoughts. Tries to figure out what to do. But he’s at a complete loss. Because he’s starting to realize that he’s really not good at _anything. _Not even the three things that he had recently _thought _he was good at. He’s just…an absolute failure.

After taking three long, deep breaths, Steve reaches for the bottle of painkillers still in his pocket, twists off the cap, digs one of the pills out, and swallows it dry. Then he shoves the bottle back in his pocket and attempts to follow Will into the kitchen, slowly and evenly. Attempts to walk without a noticeable limp even though he feels the wound practically…_festering. _

It takes holding his breath while he moves, but he thinks he does a rather successful job of suppressing the pulsing pain, hiding the wound, and walking somewhat normally—so far.

Once he makes it into the kitchen, he leans his weight onto the kitchen counter, flushed and sweaty. He wonders how long it will take for the pill to kick in. He closes his eyes for a second, wills his breathing to even out, and then straightens back up, trying to convey calm.

Will, ever perceptive, is the first to speak. “You…you really don’t look good.”

The boy’s eyes are wide with gentle concern. Steve’s stomach curls.

He _knows_ this. But he doesn’t want the _kids_ to know. And he doesn’t want to throw them into…whatever the fuck is going on with him.

He just wants them to be kids. Or teenagers.

They’re _teenagers_ now, he reminds himself.

Steve just really wishes they hadn’t come.

Because—well, what is he supposed to do _now_?

“It’s…” and suddenly, Steve has an idea. “It’s the flu, I think. Really, you guys shouldn’t even be here. I could be contagious. I promise…Billy… _Hargrove_ has nothing to do with this. I’m just…sick as a dog. Hence the absence from school today. Obviously. And maybe tomorrow. But hey, if you guys want to risk your own health, that’s…totally your choice. I mean, I’m not going to kick you out now that you’re here. Of course I wouldn’t. Probably not, anyway. Well, we’ll see. Really, it’s not like you _need _to be here. You don’t need to check up on me.”

Will stares at him with soft chocolate eyes and crinkled brows. “I just got over a nasty cold, remember? And you came to check up on _me_. You brought me soup.” The kid smiles this shy little smile that begins to melt at Steve’s defenses. “Even _if_ you’re not hurt—even if it’s just the flu…well, why wouldn’t I do the same for you?”

Steve rapidly blinks away the sting in his eyes. He doesn’t know how to respond to the kid, so he just looks into those chocolate eyes and shakes his head with a bit of awe.

“Well, jeez, kid,” he breathes, still at a loss. He reaches over and ruffles the kid’s hair with genuine affection and offers a real smile, however small it might be. “Come on. Let’s get those snacks.”

Fifteen minutes later, when Steve and Will sprawl the snacks over the coffee table, the kids crowd around the food, seated cross-legged on the floor, and begin rapidly scoffing down the chips and the chile con queso and the cubes of cheese and the crackers and the veggies as if none of them have eaten in weeks. It’s always stunned Steve—how ravenous their appetites are.

With a mouthful of chips, Dustin says, “Okay, now spill. What _happened _with Billy Hargrove? We want a full play-by-play.”

“We do not,” Mike argues, as he reaches for a piece of cheese with one hand and a cracker with the other. “We just want the pertinent facts.”

Lucas, whose munching on a piece of broccoli he dipped in the queso, nods his head a little. “Yeah, no need to, like, _go into detail_. But still…we want to know what happened.”

Steve has settled on the left side of the couch, watching these young teenage vultures potentially eat him out of house and home. Well, he knows that won’t actually happen. He’s prepared. Has plenty of supplies if they need it. He’s been getting ready for…well. None of them need to know that. He just needs to make sure they’re all taken care of. He can worry about all the prep work himself. And he _is _basically ready. For whatever.

Just in case.

“Guys, I’m fine. I was just telling Will that I have, like, the flu or something. My absence from classes today had _nothing to do _with Hargrove.”

“You really don’t look good.” Will repeats softly, concern still etched in his voice.

Steve fidgets with his hands as he stares down at the kids from the couch. “There’s really…nothing to see here, okay? I’m sick. That’s it. Not hurt. Just sick. Think I have a fever.”

At least _that _part is true. He really _does _think he has a fever.

El, who has stayed silent this entire time and who hasn’t consumed a single piece of food yet, glares up at Steve with penetrating eyes. “Something’s…wrong.”

Steve notes the accusation in the tone and looks away from her knowing gaze, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

Mike turns to his girlfriend, clearly startled. “What? What do you mean?”

Lucas looks equally shaken at El’s proclamation. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

El continues to glare at Steve. Even though Steve is attempting to look _anywhere_ else, he can still feel the weight of her unwavering stare.

“Something’s…” She leans forward, looking almost scandalized. “_Steve._” The whine in her voice has Steve finally meeting her eyes again. She looks sad and angry and confused. “Friends—don’t—friends don’t…_lie._”

Shit.

“What? I’m not”—

“_Hurt._”

Well, fuck.

Steve leans back into the couch and waits for the wave of chaos to ensue.

Dustin leaps up from the floor, mouth still full of chips, pointing an aggressive finger toward Steve as the teen tries to sink even farther into the couch. “I knew it! I _knew_ you were—What the _hell_, Steve? What happened? What did he _do_?”

Steve continues to fold into himself as he starts to voice weak, ill-thought out protests. “I’m not…not lying. I’m just…I told you…the flu…”

“Steve.” El does not look happy. In fact, she looks downright livid, and Steve starts to fear that she might actually start throwing things at him with her mind.

And with his luck, it will probably be some expensive antique that his parents got during their travels. One of the many things in this house that’s worth more than he is.

And he really doesn’t want to deal with that.

Forcing himself out of his curled up position on the couch, Steve leans forward and matches El’s stare once again before looking every single one of the party members in the eye, daring them to come near him.

They simply wait in tense silence.

It’s clear that_ none_ of them know what to do here.

“Fine, guys. Don’t believe me. Just, take the damn snacks and get the hell out of my house and leave me to…”

To what? His nightmares? The throbbing pain in his ankle? His neglected wound that Hargrove already claimed was on the verge of infection? The bottle of painkillers in his pocket? His big, empty house where the shadows in the corners spook him every odd hour and he can’t even bring himself to sleep in his own fucking bed? To the cruel insistent mantra constantly playing in his head, calling him an idiot? Calling him bullshit?

He doesn’t know what’s worse: the quiet surrounding him while his head explodes with thoughts he can’t process or drown out, or the absolute chaos and confusion of the party’s very vocal concern.

Times like this, he wishes he could just disappear. Fade out of existence. Dissolve into the abyss. Just…not be there anymore.

“No way. Absolutely not. We’re not leaving. We’re here to help.” Will insists firmly.

Mike’s eyes sweep over Steve as he sighs and nods. “You clearly need it.”

“So, will you please just tell us what’s wrong?” Lucas asks.

It’s becoming quite clear that Steve’s not getting out of this, so he might as well just get this over with.

Well, then.

Here goes.

“Listen,” he says as he leans forward and starts rolling up his right pant leg. “It’s really not a big deal, but yesterday, I…uh…Dustin and I were out in the woods.”—

“You went out into the woods to investigate _without us_?” Steve’s surprised at how offended Mike sounds, but he waves the protest away.

“_Not_ the point. The point is, I tripped on a branch or something”—

Dustin yelps in surprise. “_What_? When?”

“Jesus, guys. Let me finish, will you? Anyway, I tripped on a…root or a branch or something when we were on our way back to the car, and my ankle got a little scratched up.”

By now, his right pant leg is rolled up far enough for everyone to see the bandage that Hargrove had slapped over the wound last night. Steve hasn’t even peeked at his ankle since Hargrove treated it. Reluctantly, he peels away some of the bandage to reveal part of the wound.

It does not…look much better.

Maybe Hargrove was right. Maybe it really _is _on the verge of infection. It doesn’t hurt any less. It’s still swollen. It’s still…there’s more _puss…_

Steve tears his eyes away, not wanting to look at it anymore. He stares back up at the party instead, whose eyes have all zeroed in on the gash.

Will looks openly concerned. Lucas looks confused and a little disgruntled at the sight. Dustin looks wide-eyed and horrified. Both Mike and El look…angry.

Steve begins to shrink away again, embarrassed and a little ashamed. He’s supposed to be the babysitter here. Not…_them_. He’s supposed to be the one who takes care of _them_. They’re not supposed to…

“Steve…that _really _doesn’t look good.” Will says, voice a little shaky.

“What do you mean you _tripped_? That looks like…well, I don’t know what it looks like, but…are you sure it was a branch or a root? I mean, how do you_ know_ it wasn’t something else? Maybe there _was _something in the woods with us. Maybe I was right about the werewolves! Oh god, are you going to turn into a werewolf on the next full moon? Shit, we have research to do. We have to cover all our bases here.” Dustin rambles excitedly.

A little stunned at the reactions, Steve shakes his head, slaps the bandage back over the wound, and shoves his pant leg down. “Not a werewolf, Dustin.” At least, he_ really_ hopes not. “And show’s over. Now you all know, okay? Yes, I got hurt, but it wasn’t _Hargrove. _It was me and it was _stupid. _Actually, if you must know, and I guess you probably should, just so you don’t go accusing him of shit like this every chance you get, Hargrove even helped.”

“_What_?” Lucas, Mike, and Dustin all sound incredulous.

Steve nods. “Yep. Disinfected it and bandaged it up and everything.”

“Billy _Hargrove_?” Dustin asks, disbelievingly. “He _helped _you?”

“He did.”

“Well, no offense to the guy, I guess, but it doesn’t look like he did a _great_ job disinfecting that wound,” Mike says. “It looks pretty gross. Like, infection gross. Are you sure it’s _not_ infected?”

Steve doesn’t want to tell them that Hargrove thought the wound was already on the verge of infection hours after the incident. And he _really_ doesn’t want to tell them about the nightmares. Especially the ones that started right after this…accident. Besides, there’s no reason for them to know about his nightmares. That’s just something that he has to figure out how to deal with on his own. Somehow.

So he just shrugs, “it takes_ days_ for an infection to develop, guys. It’s fine. Yeah, it looks a little gross, but that’s not Hargrove’s fault. It’s mine. I’m the one who didn’t address this shit right away. And I haven’t done anything since he bandaged it up either. Should probably change the bandage soon and re-clean the wound and shit like that. Really not the guy’s fault that he had to deal with my stupidity just hours after this happened. So…maybe just leave him alone on this one?” Steve locks eyes with Dustin. “And cool it on the walkie talkie check-ins during our project meetings, okay?”

Dustin looks ready to protest, but after a sideways glare from Mike, the curly-haired kid just mutters a reluctant “fine” and grabs at more chips.

“You should probably go to a doctor if that doesn’t get any better in a few days,” Will tells Steve, tone full of concern and sincerity.

Steve waves his hand dismissively. “I got this. Don’t worry about it.”

Will’s shiny chocolate eyes blink up at Steve until the teen huffs in defeat and tells them, “If it’s still not getting better in, like, a week, I’ll get it checked out. I promise, okay?”

Steve suppresses the rising guilt and tries to tell himself that, sometimes, white lies are _necessary_. Especially in situations like this.

The party members nod as they settle back around the display of snacks on the coffee table and continue munching.

Steve leans back into the couch. He should feel relieved with how this turned out. Now they know about the wound. Now, as far as they’re concerned, he’s not hiding anything anymore. They have their answers.

But all he feels is nervous and fidgety and still so…_exhausted_. But, if he dozes into a half-sleep while the kids around him devour his food and surf the channels on his television for something good to watch, they certainly don’t say anything about it.

Steve manages to miss school Thursday as well, floating in and out of nightmare-plagued sleep and listless exhaustion where all he can manage to do is stare blankly at the nothingness in front of him. His eyes are glossy with fatigue when Hargrove incessantly rings the doorbell at seven that evening.

When Steve answers the door, Hargrove pushes himself inside and shoves a few pieces of paper into Steve’s chest. He doesn’t look pleased, but when does this guy ever looked pleased? Well, _maybe_ he looked pleased when he actually beat Steve half to _death_. But otherwise…

Steve glances down at the papers he’s now holding, dazed and confused. “What is this?”

“Your English homework. Nothing to do with our project, though, so don’t even ask me for help on that. The instructions are right there, in writing. Shouldn’t be _that _hard to figure out. Even for you.”

Steve closes the door and tries to blink away the fatigue. “Okay, so…”

Hargrove tosses his bag to the floor, shrugs off his coat, and throws it on the bannister before picking his bag back up and pulling the strap over his right shoulder. His piercing blue eyes stab at Steve like rusty blades. “Also, if you’re going to be absent on a day that we’re _supposed_ to meet, maybe you could send me a note or a message through Wheeler—or even that freak, Byers. Just so that I don’t end up wasting my time. Cause how am I supposed to know if you’re deathly ill or something? I mean, I’m here anyway _right now. _But in the future? Either come to fucking class or let me know. I don’t have time for bullshit, Harrington. Got it?”

Steve nods. He doesn’t bother to tell Hargrove that he didn’t actually _mean _to skip class these past two days.

It just…happened.

That’s clearly not going to dissolve the other teen’s anger, though.

Steve considers staying silent. Not making any more waves. He’s already on thin ice with Hargrove—he knows that much. And it’s probably well deserved.

Hargrove has a _right _to be angry here.

But he just can’t help himself when he says, “Aw, don’t get your panties in a twist, Hargrove. We can still have our regularly scheduled meeting. You’re already here, after all.”

Hargrove steps forward, and for a split second, Steve fears that the guy might actually punch him in the face. _Again_.

His shoulders start to tense and he begins to shrink back a little bit on instinct. Instead, Hargrove abruptly stops his advance and stares at Steve with furrowed brows and a stony, unreadable expression, before spinning around and making his way to the dining room.

Steve follows.

“Also,” Hargrove growls as he pulls his English notebook out of his bag, “if you were actually _in _class today, you would know that we got our official book assignment. We’re responsible for _The House on Mango Street._”

“Okay, great.”

Steve doesn’t actually _know_ if that’s great or not, because he doesn’t actually remember where that book ranked on their finished list, but at least they have something tangible to work with now.

Hargrove lets out a snort. “Well, I would have preferred _1984_, but it is what it is, I guess. And, lucky us, we get to present at the very end of the year. Guess this is going to be your English final after all, pretty boy.”

Steve isn’t sure how to respond, so he just stands there awkwardly, waiting for Billy to either keep insulting him or to start yelling at him to sit down so that they can actually get some work done.

As Billy falls into one of the dining room chairs, he looks around as if he’s noticing something, though Steve has no idea what.

Glancing up at Steve with a quirked eyebrow and a challenge glinting in his eyes, he asks, “So, your parents have dinner reservations tonight?”

The question catches Steve off guard, and he frowns a little as he tries to recover from the surprise. “Oh, uh…no. They’re at a…party. Told me to, like, not wait up or anything. So, don’t worry. We’re not going to get interrupted.”

“A party, huh?”

“Yep.”

Steve moves into the living room and pulls his own English notebook from the drawer in the coffee table, before moving back into the dining room and slapping the notebook onto the table with a loud clang as if that’s that. Because he doesn’t like the quivering smirk on the blond’s face or the skeptical blue eyes.

Hargrove’s scalding stare is…_itchy. _Steve almost breathes out a sigh of relief when the other teen finally breaks the gaze and continues digging through his bag. The blond pulls out two copies of their assigned book and tosses one of them across the table, toward Steve.

“The book is divided into forty-four vignettes,” Billy starts to say, but he stops when he notices Steve’s look of utter confusion. “What?”

Steve settles into his seat and asks, as carefully as possible, “What is…uh…what’s a _vignette_?”

Hargrove scowls before leaning forward and rubbing his forehead. “Jesus, Harrington. Do you just not…? Okay, listen, just…they’re not exactly _chapters. _It’s more like…think of them like scenes. Let’s just say that this book is divided into, like, forty-four interconnected scenes. Does that help?”

It actually…does. “Yeah, okay.” Steve nods. “So, forty-four connected sections that are called vignettes but are basically scenes. Sure. Got it.”

Hargrove offers the glimmer of a smirk. “Right. So, my thinking is that we basically read two of these vignettes a week. That is, one vignette—or _scene—_prior to each meeting. Then we can talk about them, make sure we’re on the same page, and as we go, we can start listing themes that we’re noticing or questions that we have. How does that sound?”

It sounds…_thoughtful. _And Steve isn’t quite sure how to respond to it. “Yeah, uh…okay. That’s…doable, I think.”

“Good. Now, we both know how much we hate staring at each other’s faces, but if we continue meeting through winter break, and we try to stick to this schedule, even if some things come up—which is probably inevitable, we should still be able to finish the book and have a list of themes and potential discussion questions by early May. I think. And then we can spend the last few weeks organizing all of that shit, finalizing our lesson, and coming up with an activity. Still with me?”

Surprisingly, Steve…_is. _And he’s…_impressed _with how much thought and care Hargrove is already putting into this project.

His insides start to swell with shame and guilt.

While Hargrove has been thinking up a detailed schedule and plan for their project, Steve has been…_sleeping. _Steve hasn’t contributed _anything_ thus far. Not really.

He’s just been…useless.

As Steve starts thinking about how much he needs to fix that, his eyes wander toward Billy’s neck. The marks look…_better. _Faded.

Soon, it’ll be like they were never even there.

But Steve won’t forget those bruises, in the splotchy shape of a hand—of _fingers. _Like the guy had been _strangled. _

Steve feels sick and queasy just thinking about how Hargrove even came to _be_ in that state.

“Hey, how’s your neck?” Steve asks before he can even stop himself. “Want some tea? How are you doing on those painkillers?”

Billy’s blank expression shatters for a brief second, revealing—what? Hurt? Pain? Fear? Confusion? Desperation? Steve doesn’t _know_—before his features revert back to a perfectly blank canvas. Steve finds Billy’s empty stare unnerving…_haunting _really_. _The forced emptiness on the other guy’s face feels wrong. Like it doesn’t belong there. Or, at least, _shouldn’t_ be there.

Seems like a mask that the blond doesn’t remember how to take off.

But what does Steve know about any of this really? All he knows is that Billy Hargrove came to his house with wounds that indicated _strangulation _and tried to claim it was just the aftermath of rough sex.

And maybe Steve _wants _to believe that.

But then he thinks about Max, and the comments she’s made about her stepfather, and her tight and angry voice on the other end of the radio, and Billy’s carefully blank mask that’s clearly hiding a torrent of emotion, and how _angry _Billy is all the time, and the bruises Steve’s noticed _before, _and…he just doesn’t.

Hargrove lifts his eyes from his book, which he’s been casually flipping through, and asks, “How’s that leg?”

Now that Steve’s started popping his own pain pills, his ankle feels…well, it doesn’t feel _terrible, _so at least he’s being sort of honest when he says, “fine.”

Billy raises his eyebrows knowingly, but he doesn’t argue. “My neck is fine, too,” he says softly. “Now, can we focus please?”

“Right. Yeah. Sorry.” Steve agrees, though his mind is still a little dizzy with the kind of concern that he knows Hargrove would _not_ appreciate.

Because Steve’s skin is cold with the realization that he can’t just sit and watch these injuries crop up and _not_ try to do anything about it.

He just doesn’t know…no, he _does. _He _does _know what to do.

He has to talk to Max.

Steve considers trying to hunt Max down during school hours the next day, but he doesn’t want to _alarm _her. So he tries to settle on a different tactic. 

When he drops the entire party, including Max, off at the arcade after school, he thinks about asking her to stay behind for a moment so that he can talk to her, but instantly reconsiders when he realizes how weird that might look to everyone.

And that Max would probably find _that_ alarming too.

Once he’s home, and drifting around the house in his drained, half-awake state, he plays with the idea of fiddling with his walkie talkie and seeing if he can get her one-on-one on a private channel. But he doesn’t bother with that either. Because he’s _tired. _And this whole thing with Hargrove isn’t actually any of his goddamn business.

He doesn’t understand why he’s starting to obsess over it.

But it’s not _just_ about Hargrove, he reminds himself. It’s about Max, too.

That’s the point, right? If one of his charges is in a dangerous situation, he needs to know. So that he can help. So that he can keep them _safe. _

The point is making sure Max is safe.

It turns out that Steve probably didn’t have to spend so much time worrying about how to talk to Max alone without alarming her or anyone else in the party because, in the end, she’s the one who seeks_ him_ out.

She rings his doorbell just when he’s about to doze off on Saturday night. Steve trips toward the door, a little disoriented, before opening it to find the redhead glaring up at him with wide, desperate eyes. “I…I need your help.” She says as she shoves past him and paces toward the kitchen.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks, startled, as he follows her.

Max’s movements are frantic as she disappears into the pantry and then steps out, a minute later, with furrowed brows.

She looks at Steve with such intensity, that he almost doesn’t process her words when she says, “Where the hell are your first aid kits, Steve? Don’t you usually keep them in the pantry? What—where did you move them to?”

Where are…oh. _Oh. _

Steve stumbles to the island and opens a cabinet door, pulling one of the kits out. Max grabs for it, but Steve’s grip on the kit is still firm and unrelenting. “No, first you tell me what’s wrong. Who’s hurt?”

“All the party members are _fine_,” Max insists, her fingers tightening around the kit. “Can I please just…borrow this for a night? I promise I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

Steve’s grip softens as he lets Maxine take the first aid kit. She pulls it to her chest and cradles it protectively. Like she might lose it if she loosens her hold.

“Of course you can…Max, I’m not going to…you can have the first aid kit. You just need to tell me what’s wrong so that we can make sure the kit has all the necessary supplies...so that it has what you need before you take it.”

“I don’t…I don’t know if I have _time _for that, Steve.” Max whispers, voice small and tight. “I think something bad might be happening _right now_ and I just…I’m just trying to be prepared. But I don’t know…I don’t know what I’m going to need. Just that a first aid kit has to…it has to help. You’re always so prepared for everything and I just…I just thought…”

Her voice trails off, but she’s staring up at Steve with such desperation that his chest aches. “Do you have time to let me just check to make sure most of the supplies are in there? So that you can be ready for…whatever?”

Max’s hold on the first aid kit loosens slightly as she offers a tiny nod and moves toward the counter. “Okay,” she says.

“Okay, good. So, I’m going to open the kit. Make sure everything is good to go. And while I do this, you’re going to tell me why you need it, okay?”

Steve starts his self-assigned task, ignoring Max’s whine of protest. “I need you to tell me, Max.”

“It’s nothing…it’s nothing for anyone else to worry about, okay?” Max’s words start to get heated. “It’s nobody else’s _business_. I just…Billy might need…I just want to make sure I can help him out in case he needs it. I think...” she gets quiet and Steve looks up from what he’s doing to assess her state. She looks like she’s…battling with something. Her brows are scrunched and her lip is quivering and her freckled face is ghostly pale. “I think something bad might be happening at home and that Billy might need my…help soon.”

For a moment, they’re both quiet. Steve’s chest clenches at the knowledge that something truly terrible _is _happening under that roof. But now that he _knows_, he feels completely ill-equipped to handle it.

To _help. _

“Okay, everything is in here, Max.” His voice trembles a little as he hands her the first aid kit. “I don’t…I don’t need it back, okay? _Keep _it. For whenever you need it.”

Max nods and whirls around, clearly ready to bolt, but Steve reaches out and grasps her shoulder. She stiffens and turns back to him, her face an open plea.

“Just listen to me, okay? Just for one second. I _know _that you don’t want to talk about this. I _know _that you are just here to grab the medical aid. But I need you to know that, whatever is going on at home, you can talk to me about it. And you can come to me if you need help.” Steve pauses as he lifts his hand off Max’s shoulder and swipes up the car keys that are sitting on the kitchen counter. “_Both _of you.”

Max nods, still uncertain—still looking absolutely petrified—as tears well up in her eyes. 

“For now, just let me drive you home. It’s a hell of a lot faster than your skateboard, after all. I won’t ask any more questions, I’ll drive away as soon as I drop you off, and you can _keep _the first aid kit for whenever you might need it. It’s not like I don’t have more. And just…promise me that, in the future, you’ll come to me for help. When…if you need it. Do we have a deal?”

Max looks ready to either argue or bolt, but after a moment of consideration, she glances down toward the keys in his hand and says, “Deal.”

Steve nods and nudges her out the door. It’s a start, at least.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Billy Hargrove practically breaks down Steve’s front door on Sunday morning after ringing the doorbell ten times and then making the wood tremble with his aggressive pounding. When Steve swings the door open, Billy storms in, furious.

He throws the first aid kit that Steve gave Max the previous night onto the floor and it lands by Steve’s feet.

“What the fuck? I don’t need a caretaker, Harrington. Save your breath—save your _energy_—for your freaky gang of brats. Preferably _excluding_ Max. She’s not your _kid. _She’s not your—she’s _my_ responsibility.”

Dumbfounded, Steve bends down and grasps at the rejected first aid kit. “I was just…trying to help. I thought…”

Billy’s left hand is cradled against his chest, hidden under the sleeve of his jacket. His right hand starts to twitch and the guy pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, before pulling out one of the cigarettes with his teeth. “Well, _whatever _you thought, you thought wrong.” He snarls, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as he stuffs the rest of the pack back in his pocket. “Because I—we—_Max and I_—don’t need this. We’re perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves. We’ve done it this long, haven’t we?”

“That’s not…I just wanted…” Steve just wanted to help. He just _wants _to help.

He _knows _it’s not right there—in that house.

Knows that something awful is happening under that roof.

“Just…seriously, Harrington. Just because we got paired up on some stupid English project that’s going to force us to spend way more time together than we should ever have to—that doesn’t—it doesn’t mean you get to shove your sniveling little nose into my life. Just…just fuck off. I mean it. I don’t need this.”

Hargrove fishes a lighter out of his jean pocket and lights his cigarette right there in the foyer before taking a long drag. Steve imagines that his parents would be horrified at such an open display of disrespect, but all he can think about his how he’s proven himself to be completely useless…_again_.

As Steve watches Hargrove drop his lighter back into his jean pocket, his gaze lingers for a moment on the other teen’s hidden left hand. “What happened there?” He asks.

Hargrove stares at him, a nasty frown forming. “What did I _just _say, Harrington?”

Steve ignores the question completely. If Hargrove is going to force him to be blunt about it, then he’s going to be blunt about it. “You’re hurt.”

Hargrove’s eyes flicker down. “No shit.”

“Why didn’t you use the first aid kit?” Steve asks, a little confused as to why the guy wouldn’t at least take the medical supplies he needed before throwing the kit back in Steve’s face.

Hargrove looks uncomfortable as he flops onto one of the bottom steps on the stairwell. “We did. Sort of.” He admits.

Steve takes a tentative step toward the blond. “So, why are you bringing it back? Max came to me for help and I told her to keep it. You shouldn’t—why bring it back? You might actually _need_ it.”

Hargrove takes another puff of his cigarette before lifting it from his lips and staring at the thin cylinder of paper-rolled tobacco. “I don’t want…I didn’t want Maxine involved in this shit. I’m trying to keep her…_away _from it. If she’s sneaking out to go in search of a fucking first aid kit…then I’m not doing a very good job keeping her out of it, am I? She doesn’t…she doesn’t deserve to…she shouldn’t have to deal with our fucked up family and our fucked up life and I don’t want her thinking that she has to take on more responsibility because of it, okay? She just needs someone to take care of her. She doesn’t need to be forced into playing nurse for her older stepbrother just because he can't handle his father's _discipline_.”

Steve finds himself a bit stunned at this..._bond _that's formed between Billy and Max. They...care about each other. It's...kind of fascinating to Steve that two people who seemed to hate each other could become...shaking those thoughts away from his head, Steve takes a seat on the floor in front of Billy and stares up at the blond with watery eyes. “Hargrove…_Billy. _You’re not…you don’t have…someone should be taking care of _you_, too. Whatever is going on in that house, _neither _of you should have to deal with it. Especially not alone. And I’m _glad_ Max came to me. You shouldn’t—you shouldn’t be pushing her away for trying to take care of you too.”

Billy stares down at him, his lips a thin line. The slight crinkle of his brow lets Steve know that, as much as he doesn’t want to admit to it, the guy’s actually _thinking _about Steve’s words. “I just can’t have her doing shit like sneaking out for a goddamn med kit and going to you—or _anyone_—for help. It’s not anyone else’s business. Yeah, my father is an abusi—my father is a _prick_, and he _can _get violent, but that’s _my _business. I don’t want anyone else involved. I can handle it—Max and I can handle it on our own.”

There’s so much Steve wants to say, but he doesn’t know where to start and he doesn’t think that Hargrove would care to listen. Steve knows that he shouldn’t just sit there with a dopey look on his face, staring up at the blond, whose forehead is now resting on bent knees, long curls draped over his legs.

_Do something useful for once in your life. _

“Can I…” Steve leans forward, and as gently as possible, he reaches for the hand that Billy’s been cradling since he arrived. “take a look at this?”

Billy lifts his head up and searches Steve’s face. “Sure,” he answers, a bit hesitant.

Billy pulls down the sleeve of his jacket and starts to unwind the hastily wrapped bandage around his hand.

“Did you let Max treat this?” Steve asks as he watches Billy unwind the bandage.

“She tried.”

“What? So you came to my house to yell a bit and return a first aid kit that you clearly _still _need?”

“God, Harrington. You make it sound so _stupid_.”

The last of the bandage around Billy’s hand drops away to reveal a red, blistering palm with a terrible shine to it.

_Burn_, Steve’s mind supplies.

A nasty one.

Blooming over the guy’s left palm. Blooming over his _fingers. _How the hell… “Can I ask what happened?”

Steve _feels_ Billy’s shoulders stiffen. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay, okay. That’s fine. You don’t have to tell me about it. Will you…will you let me treat it?”

Billy’s eyes light up with anger. “I’m not a fucking wounded animal, Harrington. You don’t have to treat me like a…stop acting like I’m going to bolt if you get too close or say the wrong thing. I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Sorry,” Steve flushes. _Stop acting like an idiot. _“Hear me out, okay? I have a proposition.”

“Alright…”

Steve ignores Billy's perplexed expression and goes for it. “What if…so, you don’t want Maxine to get too used to treating your wounds. I get that. You don’t want her to have to…deal with it. So, how about…how about you let me do it? When you need it? I mean, to help take some of the pressure off of her. You’re already coming over two times a week for the foreseeable future, anyway.”

There’s a coldness in Billy’s eyes that’s starting to melt away. For a moment, Steve glimpses a mask-less face. For a moment, Steve can see the fear and the _vulnerability. _

Terrified that the blond might refuse, Steve continues to ramble. “And, you know, my leg isn’t doing all that great. What a surprise, right? So, maybe you could, like, return the favor or something. Call it…an even exchange. We agree to…treat each other’s wounds. Starting with that burn on your hand. What do you say?”

Billy tilts his head and studies Steve through the blond curls still hanging in his face. Then Billy's sharp expression softens, just a touch, as he offers Steve his wounded hand.

“Okay, Harrington. Proposition accepted.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! If you're still with me, then I just want to say thank you for reading and for the kudos and for the wonderful comments! Please know how much I appreciate them. 
> 
> So...somehow this chapter exceeded 14,000 words. Oops? I have a fever, no beta reader, a strong desire to get some things moving, and am on day four of self-quarantining. I apologize for what all of this might mean.
> 
> Please, as always, mind the tags and take care of yourselves. Really. Especially now.
> 
> Enjoy!

Max stays the night at _El’s _house on Friday, so Billy has the pleasure of once again driving out to the police chief’s creepy cabin in the middle of the woods and trying to navigate around the guy’s traps on Saturday morning. It probably helps that Billy has memorized the map Max gave him. Or maybe it’s all thanks to muscle memory and stellar driving. Though he knows Max would argue against _that_.

Either way, he imagines that the chief might actually _switch up_ these booby traps every so often, so he’s sure he’ll have to re-learn how to avoid them at some point. If Max hanging out here becomes a regular thing, anyway.

And Billy really hopes that he can encourage that to _not _happen.

Regardless, once Max explained the map that El made—once Billy actually _understood_ what he was looking at—Billy had no trouble viewing the piece of paper as a sort of playbook. And he’s great at studying and memorizing and _acting _on those.

Once he successfully avoids any potential harm toward himself or his car, he shifts the gear into park and leans back, practically pushing against the leather as he thinks about what Max told him the last time he picked her up from this place. That next time—according to the chief, anyway—he had to do things _properly. _

As the car idles, Billy thinks about whether or not he can actually bring himself to do that. _Properly _face the police chief just to collect Max.

The mere thought makes his shoulders tense and his stomach turn. Makes him want to turn the music up to an obnoxious level again. Makes him want to honk the horn incessantly. Anything to say _fuck you _to Chief Hopper without actually having to _approach_ the man. Without putting himself within firing distance.

Clutching at the pack of cigarettes he’s just taken out of his pocket, he considers all of his options and realizes that, despite his determination to stay as far away from law enforcement as possible in _any_ scenario, he doesn’t really have the ability to do anything_ but _go up to the damn door. He has…no real choice in the matter.

Because the goddamn chief of police in this town practically _demanded _it.

So Billy stuffs his pack of cigarettes back into his pocket, stumbles out of the car, and makes his way to the front door of the cabin.

A foreboding quiet surrounds Billy as he walks away from his idling car.

Billy doesn’t like it.

In the winter chill, he can see the short puffs of his breath as he quickens his pace toward the door. _Get Max. Get out. _That’s all he has to do.

Easy enough, right?

Billy tries to shake away his nerves as he lifts his right fist and his knuckles tap against the wood of the door.

After three firm knocks, Billy steps back and tries to make himself appear uncaring—_relaxed_—despite his rapid pulse and shaking hands. Curling his fingers into his palms, he tries to channel his shield of practiced nonchalance as he waits.

The chief opens the door and steps outside, casting an unwelcome shadow over Billy. Stuck in the grip of the man’s dark halo, Billy sways a little. The sight and proximity jolt him into acute awareness. Awareness that he is now _face-to-face_ with law enforcement. Billy takes a few steps back in an effort to keep a safe distance. Because he can’t guarantee his own safety when dealing with a cop. He _knows_ this.

Neil’s told him often enough, anyway.

The chief stops mid-step and looks Billy up and down, brows furrowed. He doesn’t move any closer. Just grunts and says, “Nice of you to come to the door for your sister. _This_ time.”

Billy frowns at the criticism, but pushes down the nasty retort already ready and waiting on his lips. “Stepsister,” he corrects instead.

The man just nods as his eyes drift toward Billy’s Camaro. Underneath the mustache, Billy glimpses a smirk. “Any trouble getting here?”

The tone causes Billy pause. Hopper sounds…smug? Righteous? _Proud_? Billy can’t figure out the tone, exactly, but it almost sounds like the man would’ve been satisfied if Billy _did_ have trouble getting here. Like he wants his traps to _work_ on regular, perfectly well-intentioned people. What an absolute…_dick_.

Billy has no idea what this man is hiding from, but his blood spikes with anger at the guy for taking any kind of pleasure in causing other people harm. For deriving any kind of pleasure in potentially causing _Billy_ harm.

Another feeling burns in his gut, low and steady. One threaded with self-loathing and frustration. With hatred and guilt. With desperation and helplessness.

Because _he’s_ certainly caused harm before. He’s _sought people out. _Targeted them. He beat the shit out of Harrington. Terrorized Max and her friends.

So, yeah, maybe he’s a hypocrite.

“No, sir. I’ve done it before and can do it again.”

Hopper hums a little and squints at Billy in a way that makes the teenager want to shrink away, crawl back into his Camaro, peel out of here, and never come back—with or without Maxine. “You know, Maxine is welcome here for dinner—or to stay the night—any time.”

The words radiate with a sincerity that Billy finds unsettling.

It sounds like the kind of thing someone would say if they _knew _something. Or if they suspected trouble at home.

Instantly on edge, Billy feels his own eyes narrow.

Whatever Hopper _thinks _he knows, well, he can just fuck off.

“I’m sure her mother will keep that in mind.” Billy replies as he leans back on one of the porch beams and resists the urge to ask the guy where she is so that he can get the hell out of here. The sooner she appears, the sooner they can leave, and the farther Billy will be from the town’s police chief. And then he can remind Maxine that having a cop snooping in their business—in their _lives—_is the last thing they need right now.

Law enforcement comes with CPS. And CPS comes with an entire Pandora’s _Box_ worth of trouble…and potential _separation. _

Hopper crosses his arms and leans on the doorframe. “If you’re the one who’s going to keep picking her up, then I hope you know that I expect you to come to the door _every_ time.”

Of course he does. The self-righteous prick. “Yes, sir.”

“There’s no excuse for disrespect.” Billy can feel his muscles visibly tense at that last word. Can feel bile rise in his throat. “And bad taste in music.”

“Noted.” Billy breathes out, bristling at the insult. He shoves his hand into his pocket and lets his fingers sift through the open carton of cigarettes he stuffed in there before he got out of the car. He pulls one out and twirls it around. Considers lighting it up. Considers blowing tobacco smoke right into the man’s face. His fingers are already itching for his lighter.

_Don’t antagonize. Get Max. Get out._

Sighing, he tucks the cigarette behind his right ear and meets Hopper’s gaze. Tries to steady himself. “_Sir_.”

“But Maxine really _is_ welcome any time. Frankly, I prefer it when the girls hang out together_ without_ the boys around. Less_ trouble_ that way.”

Billy doesn’t really know how to respond to that. The words feel…layered. Coated with a double meaning.

Really, he can’t help but feel like this guy has been talking to him in code this entire time. Like Hopper wants him to understand more than what’s actually being said.

Billy tries to take note of what’s underneath the surface, but he can barely make sense of _anything_. His skin starts to itch as Hopper stares at him, gaze a little too intense.

It makes Billy a little too uncomfortable.

The words are weighted. He knows that much. _Important._ And Billy can’t quite comprehend why. And with the way Hopper is looking at him, well, it feels like the conversation could take an ominous turn at any moment.

Something is wrong here.

Something feels _off._

It’s sickeningly familiar—this feeling. And Billy is getting rather tired of it.

He’s tired of feeling so adrift in this town’s murky—and possibly treacherous—waters. His mind reels as he tries to piece together what he knows about Hawkins. About this police chief’s guarded fortress in the middle of the goddamn woods. About Max and the gang of excitable freaks that she calls friends. About whatever the fuck happened at the Byers house when Max drugged him up and threatened him with a nail-studded bat that looked like it came straight out of a horror movie.

About Harrington and his _concerning _leg wound.

After a few seconds of deep thought, Billy realizes that he still understands absolutely nothing about this creepy-ass town. And that Maxine _still_ owes him some actual explanations.

Billy wonders if Hopper is _finally_ going to reveal something—if Billy is _finally_ going to be let into whatever some of this town’s bizarre secrets are.

But the man catches Billy off-guard entirely.

“Speaking of trouble, your father spent a night in the drunk tank this past weekend.”

Billy…did not know this. He feels an aching burn in his throat.

What has Neil done? What does Hopper know about their life now that Neil let himself run too loose at the bar?

And what does Hopper want from _Billy _right now?

The helplessness and anger in his gut grow as his skin continues to prickle.

“Seems he was on a bit of a bender.” The man’s voice sounds almost too casual and it digs at Billy’s skin. “Got belligerent at the bar Sunday night. That kinda thing happen often?”

_It’s a trap._

The warning bells pound against Billy’s head.

_Abort. Get out. Get Max and get out and just keep driving. _

_Never come back._

Whether from years of conditioning or from deep-rooted fear, Billy’s feet stay planted on the porch.

“No, sir.” He responds, trying to shake away the tremble in his voice. “Guess he just had an off night. It happens.”

Hopper continues to stare at Billy with squinty eyes. Billy keeps his feet planted. Stands his ground like he’s prepared for a physical altercation. Stays defensive.

Ready to protect himself.

But Hopper’s frown just deepens. “Right. Sure.” Then the man turns his head and yells into the cabin, gruff words vibrating every beam of wood that makes up the porch. Even the panels underneath Billy’s feet rumble from the sound. “Hey kid! Are you ready to go?”

Max calls back, promising “two seconds!”

Hopper turns back to Billy. Shrugs. “Looks like she’ll be out in a minute.”

Billy nods, body still stiff with anticipation, but also a bit drained. He doesn’t know how much longer he can stand here. Doesn’t know how much longer he can keep his composure before he completely crumbles.

Max finally barrels toward the door and Billy lets out a little sigh. He wonders if his relief is audible.

It certainly _feels _palpable.

Billy gives the chief another tight nod and starts making his way down the porch steps, careful to still keep at least part of his body turned toward the man.

Maxine glides down the stairs, turns back to Hopper, gives him a short wave and a brief smile, and then makes her way to the car.

Hopper waves back and watches as Maxine lets herself into the car. Then he turns back to Billy.

With a glint in his eyes, Hopper says, “make sure you’re careful on your way out.”

Once again, Billy bristles.

If he weren’t dealing with law enforcement, he imagines that _this_ would be his moment of violent eruption.

Willing his rage to subside, Billy manages to grit out a “yes, sir.”

A few hours later, Billy drops Maxine off at the arcade and heads to Tommy’s. He doesn’t go over to the guy’s house unannounced very often, but Tommy always welcomes him in by offering him a hit of a joint when he does. Then they head to the basement and Billy helps Tommy roll some more.

Tommy, Billy, and Carol smoke four of their freshly rolled joints while lounging on the couch in the basement and watching some horror flicks Carol picked up from Family Video the night before.

They chomp through three snack packs of vanilla pudding and two bags of Cheetos and Billy finds himself more focused on the smoke dancing around the dim-lit room than whatever movie’s playing on the television as he sucks the remnants of cheese dust from his fingers.

It’s all fun and games until Tommy and Carol start making out in front of Billy. And that’s fine, too. For a moment.

Truly, Billy doesn’t quite understand the appeal of horror movies pre-sex. To him, they’re not great for foreplay.

He just doesn’t quite get why such films manage to heat people up.

But it really is fine.

At least until the two start using tongue and Carol climbs on top of Tommy, straddling him with her legs and sucking hungrily on his neck. Tommy’s hands clutch at her hips with a feverish desperation that Billy _personally_ finds more amusing than arousing.

And while Billy doesn’t _care _that they’re all over each other in a way that makes him feel like he’s watching live porn, he also doesn’t really feel like sticking around while they lick each other’s ears and rub their hands over each other’s bodies and moan in pleasure to the rhythm of thematic horror music.

Because it’s not like _he’s _going to get anything out of it.

So, once Carol’s hand slips underneath Tommy’s pants, Billy pulls himself away from the couch and smirks down at them before moving toward the staircase.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he calls on his way up the stairs and out the door, though he’s almost certain that neither of them hear it.

After that, Billy drives around for a while. Goes to the quarry. Sits on the hood of his car and stares up at a gray sky through the gnarled branches of barren trees. Burns through a couple cigarettes. Watches the smoke dissolve into the air and fade out of existence.

Tries to enjoy the peaceful quiet—_away _from everything—until it’s time to pick Maxine up.

Eventually, though, the quiet becomes noisy and all of the emotions he’s tried to press down deep inside of him begin to rage against his carefully designed mask of invulnerability.

_Fear. Anger. Helplessness. Loathing. Desperation. Terror. Need._

The feelings are…_too much_.

With quickening breath and rising panic, he tries to shove all the emotions down again. Tries to hide them away.

He can’t afford to let those feelings boil over.

He can barely afford to _feel _such emotions in the first place.

In truth, he’s only ever given himself actual permission for one: _anger_.

Because anger keeps him grounded. Anger allows him_ distance_. It keeps others away. Keeps him _safe. _

At least, when he’s out in the world.

When he’s at home, he can’t afford the anger either.

As the cold begins to take hold of him as well, Billy wipes at his nose and tells himself that he’s tired of waiting around for Maxine.

So he gets back into his car and heads to the arcade. 

And, while Maxine doesn’t seem especially _happy _with his early appearance, her forgiveness only costs him three slices of pizza and a coke.

When Billy and Max arrive home on Saturday night, they find Neil hunched over the kitchen table waiting for them. Billy stiffens in alarm at the sight and lets his eyes sweep through the space. The rest of the house is dark. Quiet.

It tells Billy the first thing that he wants to know.

Susan isn’t here.

Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Billy tries to relax the sharp ache in his chest.

Takes a breath.

Lets it out.

It doesn’t help much.

When he opens his eyes, he doesn’t feel any better. The anxiety of what might be coming, at any moment, crawls against his skin. It feels like a thousand tiny fire ants are swarming his flesh.

Neil looks up at his charges with a mask of calm.

“You know,” he starts, voice steady. “I sacrifice a lot for this family to keep it afloat. Relocated us to a small, stable environment after…”

Neil lets those words trail away as his eyes bore into Billy, cruel and calculating. “Well. _You know_. I work long hours. Pay the bills. Put food on the table. Keep a roof over your heads. Even offer up an allowance for the pathetic amount of chores that you manage to do. Keep you kids in school so that you can make something of yourselves once you’re out in the real world.”

Neil falls silent again as he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, his gaze moving from Billy to Maxine and then back again. “I don’t ask any of you for that much. Just ask that you be respectful. _Responsible. _Does that sound like me asking a lot?”

There is only one right answer here, and even that won’t be enough to save them. The promise of danger lingers in the air. Thick. Stuffy. Like a dark, stifling smog encircling them—_clinging _to them—waiting to snuff out their lives.

Billy takes a half-step forward in an effort to help guard Max from whatever might happen. Really, he just needs to get her out of here.

That’s all he knows at the moment. That’s all he can afford to care about for the next few seconds. Maxine cannot be in here right now. Not with an angry Neil clearly on the verge of dealing out punishment for some kind of wrongdoing.

Billy offers Neil a placating shake of his head. “No, sir.”

Neil nods. His cold eyes continue to bore into Billy.

Billy tries to stifle some of his rising fear. Keeps his feet planted to the ground and Maxine behind him.

“Glad to hear that you agree.” Neil says. Tilting his head, he glances toward Maxine, who has inched closer to Billy. “So, imagine my surprise when I came home and discovered that _someone_ left one of the burners on the stove on. Does that sound like someone taking care of the house and being respectful of the people who live in it to _you_? Does that sound like someone being _responsible_?”

Max’s arm brushes up against Billy’s and he spares her a look. Studies her face. She stares back, wide-eyed and terrified.

Billy’s chest constricts.

“No, sir.”

“Tell me, kids: are you aware of what could happen when a burner is left on and the pilot light goes out?”

Billy’s stomach tightens with dread. They should have stayed out. Eaten more pizza. Gone to a fucking late screening at the cinema.

With no one home—with no one to _attack—_Neil might’ve just gone to the bar.

“No, sir.”

“It’s simple, really.” Neil tells them. “It leaks gas into the house. And I’m sure you’re smart enough to know that leaking gas isn’t a _good _thing. You both bring home decent enough grades. I’m sure you’re smart enough to realize how _sick _gas can make everyone. How such a neglectful act can _poison everyone else in the house. _So, do you want to tell me who did it?”

Billy spares Max another look. Takes in her pale face and the fear behind her blue eyes. She doesn’t look guilty.

Just scared.

She glances up at Billy with scrunched eyebrows and shiny eyes and a flicker of understanding passes between them. Instantly, Billy knows that neither of them are to blame.

They both recognize who’s at fault here.

And they both know that they can’t tell Neil.

Billy’s hand curls around Max’s arm and squeezes a little, hoping that she recognizes his plea for what it is. “Max,” he says softly, “go to your room.”

“But…”

The word, drenched in fear and uncertainty, causes Billy’s chest to ache even more. But sending Maxine to her room might help protect her. And Billy _needs_ that right now.

He needs to know that he can keep at least _one person_ in this house safe.

“Please.” He presses, insistent and firm.

For a moment, he feels Maxine’s fingers encompass his wrist. Feels her squeeze back. Then she slips away.

Once he hears her door shut—once he hears her door _lock_—he fixes his father with a resolute stare and tries to will away the shaking. “I did. I did it. I’m sorry.”

Neil stands up and Billy takes a half-step back before he catches himself.

Leaning on the table, the man looks at Billy with a grim expression.

“You put everyone in the house at risk, son.”

Billy struggles for an explanation. He doesn’t know what happened exactly, but he knows how likely it is that Susan just…_forgot. _

His eyes scan over the kitchen, assessing its current state. With a touch of surprise, he notes the clean countertops and the empty dishrack.

Billy finds himself almost grateful that Susan didn’t leave the kitchen a complete disaster the way she has in the past.

But forgetting about the burner…that was…even more distressing than usual. Even more_ frustrating_ than usual. And it put them all at risk.

His chest begins to pound with familiar pangs of disappointment.

“I…forgot to turn the burner off after…boiling water for tea. It won’t happen again, sir. Now that you’ve reminded me of the risks.” Billy knows that the apology won’t satisfy his father. Over the years, though, he’s also learned the necessity of it in situations like this one. Neil needs to know that he’s sorry. That he understands.

That it won’t happen again.

And then the punishment—whatever it is—serves to reinforce that. Sometimes, a pre-punishment apology lessens the severity of…whatever Neil decides to do.

Neil nods gravely. Like he doesn’t enjoy what’s about to happen. Like the situation is out of his hands. The swirling helplessness and vibrating anger in Billy’s gut swell. _Burn_.

“Do you know what happens if we don’t catch something like this in time and gas continues to leak into the house?”

They all die?

Billy doesn’t make it to his eighteenth birthday _or_ graduation—though he may not have hope for that either way?

Maxine never learns how to _actually_ drive?

Susan stays lost in the abyss?

Understanding that Neil’s question is practically rhetorical, Billy swallows down his answers. Simply says, “No, sir.”

“The house blows up, son.” Neil says the words slowly, as if teaching a toddler about shapes. “We lose everything. And if we’re here when that happens? _We burn too_.”

Neil moves closer and cold fear pierces through Billy.

“I’m…I’m sorry.”

Neil shakes his head. “I don’t think you are, William. But you will be. Once you’re sufficiently disciplined for such dangerous and reckless _irresponsibility_.”

“I _understand_ how dangerous it was, sir. I know. I…it was a mistake.”

Neil keeps moving closer and Billy doesn’t know what to do. The anger in the man’s eyes takes his breath away.

He feels phantom fingers squeezing his throat and struggles to breathe.

He wants to run away.

He wants to fight back.

_Respond _to the threat.

But all he can manage to do is just…stand there and wait as icy terror seeps into his bones. What the fuck is _wrong_ with him?

“You understand nothing. Clearly. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have done such a thing in the first place.”

“Dad, I”—

Neil towers over him now, eyes alight. “Do you know what it feels like to burn, son?”

Images of cigarette burns lining his arms flash through Billy’s head. Of Neil casually smoking an entire pack of Camels while lecturing a ten-year-old Billy on the wrongs of stealing and pressing each spent cigarette against Billy’s flesh. Of Billy watching the embers fizzle out as they burned tiny circles into his skin and branded him a failure and a disappointment.

Billy doesn’t tell Neil _yes. _Instead, he stumbles back defensively. “What?”

“Give me your hand, William.” A clear demand. No room for negotiation. No room for argument. Only room to _obey_.

Or fight back.

But Billy doesn’t have a death wish. He’s still trying to make it to graduation.

He’s still trying to make it to _eighteen_.

“What?”

Neil grabs Billy’s left wrist, grasp firm and unforgiving. “I’m teaching you a lesson. And for that, I need your hand.”

“Sir, I don’t need…” The man’s grip tightens around Billy’s wrist. A painful warning. Billy lets his words fall away.

“Don’t question me again.” Neil growls as he pulls Billy over to the stove. “This is not a conversation. This is a _punishment_. For your utter stupidity and failure. For putting your own _family_ in danger…”

Neil twists the knob beneath the front left burner. After a couple ticks, blue flames ignite underneath the rack and Billy understands, with terrifying clarity, the punishment that Neil intends. Billy understands, with _absolute dread_, that Neil will hold his hand over these flames.

“This is what it feels like, William. To burn.”

Instinctively, Billy attempts to pull his hand back. To protect himself.

The grip around his wrist becomes crushingly tight and Billy wonders if his wrist might snap under the pressure.

His fingers curl in uneasy anticipation.

“Please…” he whispers, as Neil moves his hand over the flame.

The instant heat rapidly blooms into blinding pain. White. _Hot_. With a frantic heartbeat, Billy tries desperately to tear his hand away from the flames. Neil pushes back with an iron grip. Keeps Billy’s hand steady over the flickering blue that licks at Billy’s palm. At his fingers.

“This is what you could have done to _all _of us.”

Blinking the tears away, Billy pleads, quietly and desperately, “…stop.”

His father lets his hand _blister _in the unforgiving heat_._ “Do you feel it? That burn? Do you understand now—_really_ understand—how dire the consequences could’ve been? What your actions could have caused?”

Dizzy with pain, Billy continues to beg. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows that Neil doesn’t respond to such _weakness. _But he can’t seem to stop himself. “S-stop. Please…stop.”

“I will, son.” Neil _almost_ sounds sympathetic. But his steely grasp on Billy’s wrist tells Billy otherwise. “Once you say it. I need to _hear _you.”

Billy bites his lip in an effort to stifle a gasp. Despite drowning in the sounds of his own heaving chest and trying to blink away the unwelcome tears in his eyes, he manages to croak out the words that Neil insists on. “I—I understand, sir. I _understand_.”

His ringing desperation echoes off the walls.

“_Good_.”

With that, Neil releases Billy’s wrist and reaches for the knob to turn the burner off. Pulling his hand from the stove, Billy cradles it against his chest. Shoulders hunched, he stares down at the floor through a fog of unshed tears, limp and defeated.

“Now get the hell out of my sight while you think about how disappointed I am in you. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the night.”

Billy doesn’t need to be told twice.

He stumbles to his room, locks the door, and tries to stifle the pulsing pain blossoming over his left palm.

A half hour later, Billy is curled up on the floor of his bedroom. With his knees up, he cradles his left hand, still throbbing, and leans against the end of his bed. He tries to calm his rapid breathing, but every time the blistering burn in his hand swells, his breath hitches and he begins to panic.

A rattling at his window startles him to attention.

Rigidly, he straightens himself out and turns toward the noise. Tries to prepare himself for _anything_. He’s made a habit out of keeping his window unlocked. In case he needs to get out of the house quickly or sneak back in undetected. He never imagined that _someone else _might come through.

He can’t quite make out the shape of the shadow right outside before it’s pulling the window open and a square box is falling onto the carpet of his bedroom with a soft thud.

Briefly—_irrationally_—Billy wonders if someone has just tossed a bomb into his room. The mere thought evokes a derisive snort from him, because he understands how utterly ridiculous that would be, but he also understands how _deserved _it would be too. He’s a shit person.

He _knows_ this.

And if Neil ends up actually killing him someday soon, he truly doubts many would care.

Still, who the hell—his growing panic quickly subsides when he sees the red mane and Maxine stumbles into his room.

Relaxing, just a little, he curls back into himself and nods toward her once she shuts and latches his window. “What the fuck are you doing climbing into _my _bedroom window?”

The words come out throaty. Hoarse. He almost wishes he’d said nothing at all.

Maxine leans down to pick up the item that she dropped into his room before looking at him, brows scrunched, lips turned down, and blue eyes filled with a frantic need that he can’t comprehend. “Well, if I climbed through my _own _bedroom window, then I might’ve had to face Neil on my way to _your_ room.”

Despite the quiver in her voice, she says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. But Billy’s ears are still ringing and he just…doesn’t get it.

Absently, he stares at the box now in her hands. It looks…_familiar_.

Maxine moves toward him as he continues to stare.

Before Billy can even process it, Maxine is kneeling in front of him, inquisitive eyes combing over him before finally landing on the hand that Billy is still cradling. Her blue eyes harden and her face grows sour. That same sour expression she wore when she had glanced at the damage Neil had done to his neck.

Billy _hates_ that look on her face. Full of anger and sadness and determination. It rattles him—how _old _it makes her look.

No fourteen-year-old should look like this.

Suddenly, he’s consumed with his_ own_ frantic need.

She shouldn’t be in here. _He doesn’t want her in here_.

She needs to leave.

A “get the fuck out of here” is what he means to say before he registers the symbols on the box and realizes why—why the _medical kit—_looks so fucking familiar.

“What is that?”

Max eyes him with a bit of uncertainty and a _lot_ of impatience. “What does it _look _like?”

“It _looks _like a first aid kit.”

“Yep.” Max agrees as she tries to gently pry Billy’s right hand from his left.

Still aching and hazy, Billy lets Max assess the damage as he tries to wrap his head around her stumbling into his bedroom with medical supplies. “Why did you bring it in here?”

“Because you clearly need some medical attention.”

The ‘duh’ goes unspoken, but Billy hears it anyway.

His voice sounds distant to his own ears when he asks, “Where did you get it?”

Because it looks _familiar. _

And Billy _knows_ that thought is absurd. He _understands_ that most first aid kits look the same. He’s not stupid.

But he also understands that Maxine probably didn’t have the foresight to grab cash before sneaking out of the house in a panic while Neil disciplined him.

And, even if she_ did_ have cash on her already, she probably wouldn’t run into a store in a state of terror to purchase a first aid kit. Because…then _everyone in the entire town _would be putting their noses where they don’t belong. So Billy doubts she went out and _bought _this.

Because this is a small town.

Billy’s thoughts halt as he comes to a terrible realization. This is a small town, yes, and there is probably only_ one_ person in it with first aid kits to spare.

“Does it really matter?” Max growls defensively as she takes out a bandage to wrap his wound with and a small bottle of something else. “What’s up with the twenty questions, anyway? Can’t you just let me help you?”

“I don’t want your help, Maxine.” Billy tells her flatly. Because he _doesn’t. _He doesn’t want her sneaking out of the house and then into his room just to play nurse for him.

She shouldn’t _have_ to do this.

“You let me help last time.” Maxine huffs in confused offence, words soft and lilting.

Closing his eyes, Billy tries to calm his breaths. He doesn’t know how to explain it to her. Doesn’t know how to tell her that trying to help him isn’t worth her safety even though _him_ keeping _her _out of harm’s way is okay—_necessary _even.

Because he knows that Maxine will accuse him of having double standards. He knows that she won’t be able to see past his sudden refusal to let her be a part of this. That she won’t understand how he needs to be _better _when it comes to protecting her from his father.

While the anger and helplessness and pulsing pain swirling inside are making his resolve shaky and unbalanced, he pushes forward anyway.

“And it was a mistake,” he insists. “I _never_ should have let you…I don’t want you involved in this.”

Max’s blue eyes light up with a gleaming ferocity. She leans back on her heels and stares up at him with a look of utter determination. “I already _am_, asshole. If you haven’t noticed, _I live here too_.”

_And I need to keep you safe_, Billy wants to tell her. _I need to keep you away from this. As much as I can. No matter what. _

“That’s exactly why you should just mind your own business from now on. Stay out of Neil’s way and _let me deal with it_. The less involved you are the…the safer you are. It’s not fucking rocket science.”

Max folds her arms across her chest and levels him with a stone-cold glare. “I’m not leaving until you let me finish treating your hand. I’m going to help you fix it up whether you like it or not.”

_This isn’t working. _

Billy shuts his eyes, head swarming with thoughts on how to push Max away.

For her own good.

He never should have encouraged her in the first place. Never should have helped foster this…_bond. _If she gets hurt, it will be his own fault.

But Maxine is stubborn. Determined. _Tough_.

And clearly not easily shaken from her own resolve.

So, he channels his mounting anger and tries another tactic.

“You got this from fucking _Harrington_, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“Goddammit, Maxine! What the hell did I say about not wanting anyone in our business? And now, what, you’re inseparable from the _police chief’s_ daughter and he’s willing to open up his freaky cabin to you all the time and you’re accepting first aid kits from _Steve Harrington_? What the hell is this? You’re putting us at risk here. You know that, right?”

He watches as a stream of shifting emotions cloud her eyes and her freckled face flushes in indignant frustration. “What?! No, I’m just trying to help. Billy…”

He has her now. He _knows _this is going to push her away. Roughly shoving away the growing guilt, he presses on.

This is to _protect _her. To keep her from sneaking out of the house to bring him aid. Whatever fragile connection they’ve developed it’s…it’s _dangerous. _Because Neil is unpredictable. And if Maxine is growing confidence in trying to help, if she’s putting herself at _risk_ for him, then he can’t _keep her away from Neil. _

They never should have….they should have just stayed miserable strangers living in the same miserable house.

“Shut the hell up. I don’t want to hear any excuses, okay? You know what, how about we go back to staying out of each other’s lives as much as possible? Stay out of Neil’s way and stay out of_ my_ way, got it?”

Maxine’s face has gone ghostly white. Her shoulders start to tremble. She looks _devastated _and the guilt rakes against his ribcage, rough and raw.

He continues anyway.

“I don’t need you to be a part of this. I don’t _want_ you to be a part of this. And, for the record, I don’t need to know whatever strange, fucked up shit that you and your creepy friends are a part of either.”

_Not true, _his mind screams. If the point is to keep Maxine _safe_, then that’s not true. Just a bold lie barked in the heat of his anger.

But he doesn’t care.

Because he can’t seem to stop himself. “Once I’m eighteen, I’m getting the fuck out of this terrible town, so you can just keep your shit secrets to yourself, okay?”

He doesn’t tell her that he plans to figure out a way to take her with him. Maybe even take Susan too. To get them all away from Neil.

Because that’s not conducive to pushing her away _right now. _

“So, you don’t have to worry yourself over the idea of telling me about all that _weird shit _you’ve been trying to hide.”

“…Billy, please, I…” Max stumbles up to her feet, shock and confusion and _hurt _radiating off her in waves. The pulsating guilt Billy feels at the sight stabs at him, sharp and lingering. He leans forward and looks up at her, yearning to apologize.

He wants to say, _I’m sorry, Max. _

But this is for her own good. So he just says, “Give me the kit.”

Max peers down at him for a second, clearly not processing the request. “What?”

“_Give me the kit_ and just get out. I’m taking it back to Harrington in the morning.”

“But I haven’t even”—

“_Now_.”

She stumbles away from him and out of his room in fright and his chest aches with persistent, escalating guilt.

The image of Maxine’s shell-shocked face haunts him for the rest of the night.

Billy gets up early the next morning so that he can give Harrington a piece of his mind. So he can rip into the guy for _encouraging _Maxine. So that he can get it through the guy’s thick skull that there are things that he can’t _possibly_ understand living a life of such privilege.

And Maxine isn’t _Harrington’s _responsibility. She’s _Billy’s_.

And_ he’s_ the one who needs to keep her safe.

After repeatedly ringing the doorbell and then aggressively pounding at the door in the hopes that it might just…_splinter apart _for him, Harrington finally swings the wooden barrier between them open. Billy pushes his way inside with unrelenting fury.

He throws Harrington’s first aid kit to the floor and it lands, with a loud clank against the polished hardwood, by Harrington’s feet.

“What the fuck? I don’t need a caretaker, Harrington. Save your breath—save your _energy—_for your freaky gang of brats. Preferably _excluding _Max. She’s not your _kid. _She’s not your—she’s _my _responsibility.”

Harrington bends down to pick up the first aid kit with shaky hands. “I was just…trying to help. I thought…”

And then Harrington glances down at Billy’s hand, cradled against his chest and hidden under the sleeve of his jacket, and everything changes.

While sitting on the bottom of Harrington’s staircase and taking puffs of a cigarette, Billy tries to explain to Harrington that Maxine shouldn’t be involved in this shit. Tries to explain that, if she’s sneaking out to go in search of a fucking first aid kit, then Billy isn’t doing a particularly good job of keeping her out of it. That she doesn’t deserve…that she shouldn’t have to deal with their fucked up family and fucked up life.

That she shouldn’t be forced to play nurse for her older stepbrother just because he can’t handle…_discipline_.

Harrington takes a seat on the floor in front of Billy, stares at him with watery brown eyes, and pushes back. “Hargrove…_Billy. _You’re not…you don’t have…someone should be taking care of _you_, too. Whatever is going on in that house, _neither _of you should have to deal with it. Especially not alone. And I’m _glad _Max came to me. You shouldn’t—you shouldn’t be pushing her away for trying to take care of you too.”

The words wash over him, ringing with a clear truth that Billy has been trying to deny. His gut twists with remorse as he rests his forehead on his bent knees and lets his long curls drape over his legs.

For a moment, there is only silence.

Then he hears a rustling as Harrington moves closer and reaches for the hand that Billy’s been cradling since he arrived.

“Can I…” the voice is soft and careful. “Take a look at this?”

Billy lifts his head. Searches Harrington’s face. Takes in the wide, earnest brown eyes still shadowed with fatigue. Takes in the sweat beaded over crinkled eyebrows and the still clammy skin.

And he notes the small, encouraging smile. Almost ghost-like, but still present.

“Sure,” Billy answers, still a bit hesitant. He pulls down the sleeve of his jacket and starts to unwind the hastily wrapped bandage around his hand.

“Did you let Max treat this?” Harrington asks while he watches Billy.

“She tried.”

“What? So you came to my house to yell a bit and return a first aid kit that you clearly _still _need?”

Harrington makes it sound so…_stupid _and Billy tells him so.

The last of the bandage around Billy’s hand drops away to reveal a red, blistering burn that spans over his entire left palm. Over his _fingers. _It still _aches._

“Can I ask what happened?”

Billy stiffens. _Fuck no. _“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay, okay.” Harrington says. As if it’s a perfectly acceptable answer. “That’s fine. You don’t have to tell me about it. Will you…will you let me treat it?”

A familiar and _welcome _anger surges through Billy. “I’m not a fucking wounded animal, Harrington. You don’t have to treat me like a…stop acting like I’m going to bolt if you get too close or say the wrong thing. I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Harrington flushes and stutters out an apology. “Sorry. Hear me out, okay? I have a proposition.”

The words are unexpected. _Foreign _sounding.

“Alright…”

Confused, but curious, Billy waits for the brunet to continue.

“What if…so, you don’t want Maxine to get too used to treating your wounds. I get that. You don’t want her to have to…deal with it. So, how about…how about you let me do it? When you need it? I mean, to help take some of the pressure off of her. You’re already coming over two times a week for the foreseeable future, anyway.”

The offer _floors_ Billy. He blinks in surprise, feeling completely baffled and overwhelmed.

No one has ever offered to _help _him before. Not really.

Other than Maxine, no one has ever _tried_.

And he doesn’t quite know how to respond to it.

How to respond to _kindness. _

_Charity_, his mind supplies. _Pity._

Billy straightens up with a scowl. He doesn’t want _that _type of kindness. He doesn’t want the type that will cost him his pride. The type that people do out of obligation for what they think is right even if they don’t think he deserves anything more than his current lot in life. And Billy certainly doesn’t want to _owe _anyone anything.

Harrington studies Billy for a moment, eyes glinting with recognition. More words rapidly spill from his mouth.

“And, you know, my leg isn’t doing all that great. What a surprise, right?”

_No surprise at all_, Billy wants to say.

But he simply raises an eyebrow instead.

“So, maybe you could, like, return the favor or something. Call it…an even exchange. We agree to…treat each other’s wounds. Starting with that burn on your hand. What do you say?”

Billy tilts his head and stares at the brunet through his blond curls.

Not pity.

Not charity.

An…_exchange. _A trade.

A kindness for a kindness.

Something lifts in his chest and he feels his own expression soften as he offers Steve Harrington his wounded hand and accepts the proposition.

They fall into a twice weekly routine after that.

On Tuesday, Billy arrives at Harrington’s, promptly at 7pm. As usual, it takes Harrington entirely too long to open the door and when he does, his face is sweaty with fatigue. Billy finds himself commenting on this, but Harrington shoves the words away and pulls the blond toward the kitchen, sitting him on one of the bar stools and assessing his physical state.

Billy lets Harrington check on his burn before he stands up and pushes Harrington onto the stool so that _he _can take a look at the guy’s leg.

Harrington’s leg _still_ doesn’t look…great. Billy can admit that it looks _marginally _better, because the gash is slowly starting to heal—though not as quickly as it _should_ be—and there’s less puss, but the guy’s ankle is still swollen and there are _definitely _still signs of infection.

But at least the infection doesn’t seem to be spreading.

Frustrated at the sight—because Billy knows that this wound is a week old now and it _should _look better than this and nothing about this injury makes any sense—Billy tells Harrington that maybe he should consider going to a doctor. Harrington shakes his head, offers Billy an _infuriating _smile, and tells him that as long as it’s not getting any worse, then he’s fine. Billy resists the urge to call the guy a fucking idiot.

Because they have a _deal _now.

So, Billy just catalogs how swollen the ankle still is, how much the gash _still _needs to heal before Billy would call it “better,” and how _ill _Harrington still looks in general.

Then they move to the dining room to sit in those stiff, uncomfortable, and potentially insanely expensive chairs to discuss the first vignette of _The House on Mango Street. _

They do the same thing on Thursday. Assessing—and treating—their respective wounds in the kitchen before moving into the dining room to work on their English project.

This time, though, Billy’s eyes continue to sweep the interior of the house as he takes note of how unnervingly _soundless _this gigantic estate is. As if no one’s around. Well, _Harrington’s _around, but still.

Everything always looks the same.

Perfectly placed.

Perfectly polished.

Perfectly _vacant._

Curiosity nags as the quiet blankets him.

When they eventually settle down in the dining room to do their schoolwork, Billy can’t help himself. “So, what is it this time? A dinner reservation or a party?”

It comes out meaner than he expects it to—then he _wants _it to, and Harrington winces. The act is slight, _almost_ unnoticeable, but Billy has an eye for this.

“Business trip. Should be back next week.”

Billy takes note of the spark in Harrington’s eyes and how his expression shifts from nervous to blank to determined.

Billy lets his blue eyes stare into wide brown ones. Lets his evident skepticism intensify Harrington’s squirm for just a moment.

Then he leans forward and reaches for his book so that they can discuss the second vignette. Because he still cares—very much—about his English grade. And just because they have this new…_thing…_well, that doesn’t mean they can slack off on what’s important.

Billy doesn’t visit Harrington over the weekend, though it’s clear that there’s an unspoken—_open _invitation.

In case he needs it.

And, really, he’s still not sure_ what_ to make of that.

Because Harrington isn’t just the guy he almost _killed _in a vicious haze at the Byers’ house anymore. He isn’t just the spoiled preppy he stole the title of “king” from or the clumsy basketball player he harassed on the court and spoke suggestively to in the showers.

He’s also the guy who tries to look after Maxine and her friends _all the time_. Who’s constantly giving them rides to the arcade and the cinema and the pizza shop and the _mall. _The guy who would be willing to jump in front of a train or charge a bear or take a goddamn bullet for them because he obviously values_ their_ lives more than his _own. _

The guy who hesitates during their discussions of _The House on Mango Street _as if he thinks whatever he has to say is…_worthless _even though he’s perfectly capable of engaging in thoughtful textual conversation when Billy pushes and prods.

The guy who now tends to the violent brushstrokes of bruises and cuts and burns that Neil leaves on Billy’s skin. Who shuffles around the kitchen with a nervous kind of…_need_ that Billy still doesn’t understand.

The more Billy observes the brunet, the more he realizes how…_hard _Harrington tries for the sake of everyone else. How much he always wants to _help. _How much he genuinely _cares _for the people around him. Especially that loud, curly-haired menace who tried to radio in on one of their first project meetings.

And it’s not lost on Billy how much Harrington vigorously _ignores _his own well-being. Because the brunet is also…a bit of a human disaster. If the frequent truancy and the leg wound that just won’t heal up and the constant shadows under his eyes and the pale, clammy skin are anything to go by, anyway.

Billy’s never…Billy’s never seen anything like it before.

It just makes him feel…perplexed. And _guilty._

Always guilty.

When he thinks about Harrington, he remembers breaking a plate over the guy’s perfectly stylized hair and watching soft brown eyes turn glassy and unfocused.

And then Billy’s shame over his actions begins to consume him and he starts to realize that he has _so much_ to make up for and sometimes it feels like he has so little time to do it.

So, while Billy tries to wrap his mind around all of _that, _he also tries to figure out how to make up with _Maxine_, who’s been avoiding him all week by skateboarding to and from school and asking others for rides.

On Saturday night, he knocks on her bedroom door with a couple rented movies and a few boxes of her favorite snack—chocolate-covered raisins—in his hands.

She opens the door, just a crack, and stares up at him, blue eyes cool and guarded. “What’s up?” she asks, tone carefully neutral.

Billy starts to reply, but his words catch in his throat.

Why does this have to be so _difficult_?

“You…uh…I rented some movies. Thought we could watch them together. You know, if you want. Even got your favorite snack.”

Jesus, this is _pathetic_. He sounds like a fucking sap or something.

She blinks up at him blankly.

Billy gazes down at her, practically imploring her to say _something_ so that he doesn’t feel so unbelievably pitiful.

Chewing on her bottom lip, Max glances down at the loot in his hands and inspects his offerings. A moment later, she opens her door a little wider to let him in.

He steps forward and spills the contents in his arms onto her bed as she closes the door. Then she picks up each VHS tape, reads the descriptions, and makes a decision before handing him a tape and asking him to pop it into the VCR wedged atop her dresser and underneath the small television.

He doesn’t even glance at her choice before pushing the tape into the VCR, pressing play, and settling beside her on the bed.

They sit through the pre-movie previews in silence.

When the opening credits begin to roll onto the screen, Billy says, “Harrington and I struck up a sort of…treat-each-other’s wounds deal. Since I’m already spending a couple days a week at his place anyway.”

Max reaches for one of the boxes of chocolate-covered raisins, her grip tight and stiff.

“_Good,” _she says softly, voice tinged with a peculiar sadness. “And I’m still here too.”

Maxine opens the box of chocolate-covered raisins and pours several into her palm before stuffing them into her mouth. They both go back to staring at the television, though Billy doubts that either of them are truly watching the movie.

Eventually, while still staring at the static-y screen of the television, Max says, “You know you don’t always have to buy things to apologize, right?”

Billy…doesn’t understand. “What?”

Maxine’s eyes are still trained on the screen. “You can just say you’re sorry.” Her voice is quiet but firm. “You don’t owe me anything else.”

Billy wants to argue with that. _Vehemently_.

Wants to tell her that, sometimes, he feels like he owes her the world.

But that’s not what she wants.

So he turns his head toward her, cradles hers with his right hand, and gently presses his lips to the top of her head the way his mother used to when he was small and she was _there _and whispers, “I’m sorry, Max.”

The next week is more of the same. On Tuesday, Billy goes to Harrington’s and Harrington treats the cut on Billy’s forehead that Neil’s ring left behind before Billy checks out Harrington’s leg wound.

Still swollen. Still _nasty_ looking. Still _definitely_ infected—no matter how much Harrington wants to ignore_ that_ glaring detail.

But at least there’s still no puss. And at least it’s still not spreading.

At least…it doesn’t _seem _to be.

Billy’s not a doctor or a nurse, but he has enough sense to know that Harrington probably needs _proper _medical attention.

Because something’s not right here.

The wound itself isn’t _significantly _getting worse. Not the way it would with a typical untreated—properly anyway—infection. But it’s also not getting much better either.

It’s like the wound is…frozen.

Once again, Billy tells Harrington that he should consider going to a doctor and Harrington nervously laughs him off.

So they move into the dining room and continue to work on their English project.

During their discussion of themes that they’re starting to notice, Billy looks around at the quiet house and suddenly realizes that he still hasn’t even _met _Harrington’s parents and that the house always seems to be in the same state: suspended in time. Unreal, almost.

_Untouched._

He remembers Harrington claiming his folks were on a business trip last week and that they were—allegedly—supposed to get home from that trip _this _week.

_Where the _fuck _are your parents—really? _Billy wants to ask.

At first, the clear absence of adult supervision riddled him with jealousy.

Now he’s just…confused. 

The question of Harrington’s parents is becoming a rolling boil inside him.

At some point, he knows that this question will spew from his lips without his consent.

Billy doesn’t really _want_ that to happen, but then at least he would _know _what the fuck is going on here.

The mystery of it all—and the mystery of this entire _town—_is starting to drive him mad.

A run-in with an angry Neil on Thursday morning leaves Billy with finger-shaped bruises around his right wrist and prompts him to consider sleeping in his car later that night.

Neil had caught him sneaking back into the house after spending most of Wednesday night at Tommy’s getting high and fucking around.

Neil told Billy that if he was going to go out partying all night _anyway_—well, then, he didn’t really deserve to have a nice, warm bed to sleep in and a roof over his head.

Told him that he might as well just not come home at all that evening if he planned on going out in the middle of the night again.

And Billy’s not stupid. He knows what could happen if he _does_ chance sleeping in his own bed tonight after that threat. He understands that it would be better to stay away and test the waters tomorrow morning.

But that also means that Maxine and Susan would be on their own. And while he still can’t do anything about Susan, he _can _try to keep Maxine prepared.

_Safe_.

So he suggests that Maxine avoid the house as much as possible for the day as he drives her to school. Even tells her that, if she spins it the right way, it might even be a good idea to see if Chief Hopper would let her spend the night.

When he takes his eyes off the road to see if she’s processing what he’s telling her, he notes her bewildered surprise. Notes the mix of horror and concern in her eyes.

_Nothing to worry about_, he tells her. _Just to be safe. _

So, yeah, he plans on driving out to the quarry and sleeping in his car later that night. After his meeting with Harrington, anyway.

When Harrington opens the door later that day, he looks worse than usual.

Bone-tired.

The shadows under his tired eyes, stark against his pale skin, appear as sunken bruises. His usually carefully trussed-up hair looks a complete mess, as if he just rolled out of bed.

The wrinkled, loose-fitting clothes support this theory and Billy wonders how much the guy actually sleeps. Because it seems like he’s sleeping _all the time_, but constant fatigue is clearly wearing him down.

It’s obviously not _restful _sleep.

But Billy doesn’t say anything about it as he follows Harrington into the kitchen and they tend to each other’s wounds. Though he does purse his lips and offer up a dissatisfied grunt when he presses the back of his right hand against Harrington’s clammy forehead and feels the wet, radiating heat.

“Go see a fucking doctor, Harrington,” Billy tries to insist as he starts packing up the medical kit on the counter.

Harrington pulls his pant leg back over his bandaged ankle and shakily lifts himself off the stool.

“We have a deal,” Harrington reminds him, as if that makes all the difference. “An even _exchange. _You help me with this and I help you with…”

The words trail off and Billy shakes his head a little. “Sure. We have a deal. But this…_exchange _clearly isn’t helping you the way it should. _I’m _clearly not helping you.”

He feels an irrational amount of guilt at the situation, though he realizes whatever actually happened to Harrington’s leg has absolutely nothing to do with him.

If Billy’s being honest, the whole thing has him feeling a bit lost. He’s been treating the wound for three weeks now and it hasn’t gotten any better. That’s not…that’s not normal.

It’s not _natural. _

“It hasn’t really gotten any better,” Billy says.

Harrington smiles up at him with wet eyes that pull at Billy in a way that he doesn’t understand. “It hasn’t gotten any _worse _either,” Harrington replies, almost cheerfully.

_That’s debatable, _Billy wants to say as he watches the brunet stumble toward the fridge, limp still prominent.

Billy thinks about pointing out the shadows under his eyes. The clammy skin. The fever. The apparent weight loss.

But it’s useless.

Because anything he says about it will just go unheard— will just be _willfully ignored. _

So, when Harrington turns toward him again after opening one of the fridge doors and asks him, “snacks?” Billy just stuffs his right hand into the pocket where his pack of cigarettes is, squeezes the paperboard, nods, and lets them get on with the night.

The later it gets, the more Billy thinks about sleeping in his car, cramped and uncomfortable. _Cold_.

Those thoughts begin to consume him so much that he can’t concentrate on their current _The House on Mango Street _conversation.

Because he’s thinking about how much he hates charity.

And how much he _hates _asking for things.

But this house is so _big_ and _warm_ and _quiet_ and _empty._

Before he even thinks about it, he’s telling Harrington that it’s getting pretty late. He looks up at the brunet, who’s looking back at him curiously. Like he doesn’t know what Billy is trying to get at.

So Billy does something he never thought he’d do in front of Steve Harrington.

He swallows his pride.

“Can I…uh…can I stay over?”

By the way Harrington frowns at him, he knows that the brunet wants to ask about this. But the guy just closes his book, tosses it onto the dining room table, and nods his head. He offers Billy a familiar smile. Small and encouraging.

“Sure. Of course.”

And that’s how Billy finds himself in Harrington’s guest bedroom with five extra layers of blankets, folded _pajamas_, and fresh towels for a shower in the morning.

Harrington points out the ensuite bathroom and shows Billy where he can find a toothbrush and toothpaste and shampoo and whatever fucking else Billy might need.

Frankly, Billy is a bit stunned at the hospitality and the excitement with which Harrington shows him around the rest of the house before leading him back to the guest bedroom—apparently the older boy thinks that Billy really needs to know where to find the best midnight snacks and where all the light switches are.

Harrington even shows Billy where the _light bulbs _are in case a bulb burns out.

On the tour, Billy notes how _worn _the couch in the living room looks. As if dented from a permanent house guest. It nags at him a bit—why he’s getting what kind of feels like royal treatment when other guests were offered the couch.

So Billy offers to sleep there—on the couch—instead of the guest bedroom, because even _that’s _a hell of a lot better than his car in December. But Harrington shifts like he’s visibly uncomfortable before shaking his head and running his hand through his mop of dark hair and_ requesting_ that Billy take the guest bedroom.

_Weird_, but okay.

The only rooms Harrington seems to avoid on his tour are _his _bedroom and his parents’ bedroom. And while Billy can certainly respect the need for some privacy, he’s starting to wonder if this guy even _has _parents.

Once they arrive back into the guest bedroom, Billy takes a seat at the edge of the bed and looks up at Harrington, who’s leaning against the doorframe, arms wrapped around his middle. Like he can’t figure out if he should be asking Billy if he needs anything else or leaving him alone. Billy can’t help with that because, well, he feels uncertain himself. Out of place.

_Vulnerable._

He doesn’t care for it.

“So, are you sure this is cool?” Billy asks as he digs into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. He pulls the pack out and clasps both hands around it, staring down at the image of the Camel printed onto the paperboard. “Are your parents going to freak out or something? Cause I mean, if they are…I…I get it. It’s a school night and parents are… Like, they’re not going to come home and lose their shit if they find me in here, right? Cause I _really _don’t want to deal with someone else’s angry parents.”

He can barely deal with his own.

“Yeah,” Harrington breathes, lips twitching down briefly before curving up into a tentative smile. “It’s _fine. _They’re on a business trip. Won’t be back til next week. So don’t even worry about it.”

Billy doesn’t tell Harrington that that’s the excuse he used _last _week. He doesn’t say that, according to _that _story, Harrington’s parents were due back _this _week. He also doesn’t mention that winter break starts next week. That next week is Christmas. Just nods and mumbles a sincere, “Thanks, pretty boy.”

Harrington grins back before saying “good night” and gently shutting the door, leaving Billy alone in a guest bedroom that feels more like a fancy hotel room.

Later that night, a clatter from downstairs startles Billy awake.

He sits up in the massive king-sized bed, kicks away the layers of blankets he cocooned himself in, and blinks the sleep out of his eyes as he listens for another noise and tries to get a sense of what’s going on.

He hears nothing more.

Slowly, _quietly_, he pulls himself out of the bed and inches toward his closed door as his eyes grow accustomed to the dark. Once he reaches the door, he strains to hear again.

Still nothing.

Maybe he’s just hearing things.

Maybe it’s nothing.

Could be the wind, for all he knows.

Then, suddenly, he hears another clatter from downstairs and it prompts him to bolt out of the room and search behind all the doors upstairs for Harrington’s bedroom.

When he finally finds the room he’s looking for, he’s rewarded with disappointment. Because the room is empty. 

He glances around, a little bewildered. The bedroom is clean and relatively bare. He sees a neatly-made bed. Flat pillows. A dusty desk in the corner. With furrowed brows, Billy continues to survey the space. Finally, after blinking away more of the dark, he notices a couple of old posters—is that _Farrah Fawcett?—_plastered on the wall that indicate that, yes, this is clearly _supposed to be_ Harrington’s room.

But there’s a strange crispness to the space.

It feels…stale. Smells…_musty. _

Like no one actually _uses _the room.

Like Harrington is never _in _here. 

Where the hell does the guy _sleep_?

And then Billy remembers the living room couch, worn and indented.

Well…_fuck_.

Shaking his confusion away, Billy stumbles down the stairs and starts turning on lights. He now finds himself surprisingly thankful that Harrington went around showing him where the switches are.

When he reaches the living room, he finds Harrington standing in the middle of the room with a _bat _in his hand, ready to swing.

Startled, Billy glances around the room. He finds no apparent danger.

Clearly, though, Harrington had thought differently and had already swung a few times.

Pieces of a shattered vase lay on the ground below him.

Billy’s heart rate spikes at the sight.

_Don’t let him move. He’ll cut up his feet._

Billy understands that he can’t let Harrington step on the broken shards with his bare feet, but he also understands that he can’t move any closer when the guy is holding a potential weapon and posing a possible threat to Billy’s own safety.

So Billy plants his feet and calls out. “Hey, Harrington.”

He wants to say _it’s okay. _He wants to say _calm down. _He wants to ask _what’s wrong. _

Instead, his eyes move to the bat in the brunet’s hands and he recognizes the spikes—the nails _infused _in the wood. Well…

Shit.

“_Fuck_, Harrington. What the _hell _are you doing with that thing?”

It’s the goddamn bat full of nails that Max had threatened him with—that she’d almost castrated him with, really. And Harrington has it. Harrington’s _wielding _it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like the thing is just another _appendage_ to him. 

Harrington’s wide eyes are glassy and desperate as he looks up at Billy. “There are monsters in the dark.”

Billy scoffs. _Monsters. _Right.

“Yeah,” the word is like acid on his tongue, hot and bitter, “and some of them are human.”

Harrington falters, his grip on the bat loosening slightly. The glassiness in his eyes fades a little as he looks at Billy and then looks down at the nail-studded bat. Like he didn’t even realize he was holding it. That’s…probably not a good sign. “…What?”

“Nothing.” Billy says while he tries to process Harrington’s mental state. “Just don’t castrate me with that horror movie prop of yours.”

He watches Harrington tilt his head, brown eyes glistening. His skin starts to itch at the stare. It feels like Harrington’s _dissecting _him. Searching for something. He’s not sure if Harrington’s found it when the other guy finally asks: “Well, are you a monster?”

Billy doesn’t have the fucking_ energy_ for this right now.

“Goddammit. I swear to fucking all that is _holy_, Harrington, don’t mess with me. I’m quite cranky without adequate sleep.”

Harrington visibly deflates. “Sorry, I just…I thought I saw an elepha…?—a rhin…?—over in the corner, there was a shad…I just…I thought I heard something.”

Considering how eerily quiet this house is most of the time, Billy understands how one small noise or a moving shadow might send this guy over the edge and he wonders how often this—_being over the edge_—happens.

“Probably just the wind outside playing tricks on your mind,” Billy offers.

Harrington laughs a little. It sounds like a choke. “You clearly haven’t lived in this town long enough if you think that ‘just the wind’ is a real, _plausible_ explanation.”

“Everyone in this town is so_ fucking_ strange. Max is too—now that she spends all her time with those other creepy kids. And the police chief. And _you. _What kind of Kool-Aide have you all been drinking, anyway?”

Harrington’s sigh is audible as the bat drops to his feet and he begins to move forward.

Billy throws his hands up in alarm. Demands that Harrington “_Stop!_”

Harrington stills as Billy’s command ricochets off the walls. His brown eyes gloss over with fear and Billy can see the slight vibrations in his hands and fingers.

Shit.

He didn’t mean…

“There are broken shards by your feet, Harrington. Just…don’t cut yourself.”

Harrington looks down and lets out a small noise of surprise. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Shit. I’m sorry. I should—I should clean this up. Just give me a second and…”

And then Harrington practically _collapses _onto the floor to gather the broken shards with his _trembling __hands. _Billy watches for a moment in horror. Because…_Jesus_. Even when the guy is coming out of a—_whatever this is_—fever dream? night terror?—he’s still trying to be _helpful. _Still ignoring his own well-being.

Billy walks toward Harrington and kneels down on the floor, the mess of shards now between them. He doesn’t reach out to help yet. Just voices the same demand as before, but this time his tone is softer.

Coaxing.

“Stop.”

Harrington either doesn’t hear him or is dutifully _ignoring_ him, so Billy sighs, reaches out with his right hand, and presses his palm against the back of one of Harrington’s hands to quiet them down.

“We can deal with this later,” Billy says. “Just…you need to calm down a little bit and I need to…I need to understand what the fuck is going on. I mean, Jesus, I’m waking up to you swinging a nail-studded bat at fucking _vases. _Where did you even _get _that thing? What do you think you need to use it against?”

_Why do you sleep on the couch?_

_Why do all those bratty kids follow you around like goddamn ducklings?_

_What do you know about the police chief’s booby-trapped fortress in the middle of the fucking woods?_

_Why do you all communicate so frantically and so often via walkie talkies like the end-times are coming?_

Billy has so many questions and he just…he’s _tired _of it. He’s sick of being kept in the dark. And Maxine still hasn’t told him _shit. _And whatever is going on with Harrington right now—it _feels _like it’s connected to everything else.

Harrington’s itchy stare is dissecting him again, but Billy refuses to pull his hand away until the other guy responds.

With a sigh, Harrington straightens out, pulls his own hands away, and moves to the couch, careful to avoid the broken shards on the floor. He flops down onto one of the indented cushions before tilting his head toward Billy.

Still kneeling on the floor, Billy waits for an answer to at least _one _of the questions swimming in his head.

“You know,” Harrington starts. “I guess now’s a good a time as any for this. Cause Max asked me to tell you—because _she _couldn’t figure out how to do it herself—and I just haven’t…it never felt like the best time.”

“Tell me about what? The Hawkins Cult? Am I the only resident who’s_ not_ a member? Are you all planning on performing some sacrificial ritual where I’m the lamb? Cause, you know, just for the record, I’m _not _really cool with that. I have plans for my life. And those plans don’t involve me staying in this shit town until I die.”

Harrington’s face pales and he glances down at Billy with wild, bemused eyes. “Jesus, is_ that_ what you think is going on? You think we’re all part of a _cult_? What weird-ass movies have you been renting out at Family Video?”

Billy is instantly on his feet and trying to defend himself. “Well, Harrington, excuse me for trying to figure out what this_ entire town_ seems to be keeping from me… Let’s just say I wouldn’t be surprised if”—

“And what part of _monsters_ don’t you understand, exactly?”

…What?

“What?”

“Monsters.” Harrington presses, leaning forward on the couch. “This town has…monsters and government conspiracies in its recent past.”

Oh, for the love of God.

Billy’s just _never _going to know what the fuck is up with this place.

“…What?”

“And Max was…part of some of that.”

“_What_?”

“She wanted to tell you about it. But, like I just said, she didn’t know _how. _And she got dragged into it when all this shit started up _again—_cause it happened before you guys moved into the neighborhood too—and the rest of us, well… Like I just said, we dealt with some of it _before_…shit, I was such an _asshole_…with Nancy and Jonathan and Will going missing and…_Barb_…and we all signed these NDAs…and…I _guess…_I mean, _maybe _those don’t matter anymore, but…”

Billy moves to the couch and sits down beside Harrington before turning his head toward the brunet and offering up an unimpressed scowl. “Are you capable of being_ less_ vague?”

Harrington’s brown eyes shift a little. Huffing in frustration, the brunet continues. “We just…at first we kept it secret because we thought we could get in trouble if we talked about it. But we’re always on the_ lookout_ for more of the strange…because this town is like a _magnet _for that kind of shit…”

“So, that’s a no?” Billy asks, fingers starting to itch for a cigarette.

Harrington turns his entire body toward Billy, pretzels his legs, leans his back against the armrest, and stares at Billy with feverish intensity. “Listen. _Monsters_. All you need to know is that monsters are a _thing_ here. They come from the—the Upside Down. Which _looks _like our world, I guess. Sort of. But it’s not. And it’s full of…well, basically nightmare fodder. The kind of creatures that would haunt your dreams. Like, before you moved here, Will Byers went missing and El showed up…”

Harrington’s winding ramble moves from frustratingly vague to eerily detailed and back again, leaving Billy to piece together the concrete reality of all of this on his own.

Billy learns about Will Byers surviving in this other world. About Joyce Byers practically harassing Chief Hopper until the man agreed to help her find her boy. About Harrington helping Nancy and Jonathan fight off some evil creature from this other world.

About El escaping from a fucking _lab_, with the number eleven tattooed on her wrist and telekinetic _powers. _About her closing the gate to this…Upside Down place…they _think. _

About her adoption.

He even learns about the cover-up surrounding Barbara Holland’s death.

Harrington’s eyes go glassy when he tells Billy of his party and how that’s the last time that anyone saw her alive.

Eventually, Billy even learns what _Maxine _was involved in when they moved to town. Learns about the tunnels and the demodogs and the massacre at the lab and mind-controlling monsters and _more _government conspiracy.

Frankly, it all sounds absolutely _absurd._

_Impossible_.

But as Harrington rambles on, things begin to click into place.

Because even that confusing night at the Byers’, where Billy gave Harrington a concussion, _makes sense_ now.

When Harrington finally finishes, Billy leans back into the couch and stares at the broken shards still scattered on the floor. Then he tilts his head toward the brunet, who’s leaning forward and breathing heavily.

Billy considers commenting that a town-wide cult is probably an easier story to digest. Instead, he asks the only question he still has. “So, is that what’s going on with your ankle then? Did you get scratched up by a dog-mon thing? Is that why you’re not…healing? Maybe even getting worse—in some ways?”

“A _demodog_.” Harrington corrects. “And _no_. And, also, I’m _not _getting worse. I’m just…not getting better.”

Billy smirks a little. “Right. So, what happened then?”

“Um…I tripped.”

“You _tripped_?”

“God, you sound like all those brats.”

“On _what_?”

“A branch or a tree root or something.”

Billy senses the lie instantly and notes how Harrington’s brown eyes skittishly move around the room. How the guy _actively_ avoids looking at him. “Okay. What_ really_ happened?”

Harrington’s gaze finally settles on Billy and he leans forward even more. Hunching over, he takes a shuddering breath. “I don’t _know._” Harrington admits unsteadily, eyes wider than usual.

That’s…not good.

Billy stands up. Starts to pace. Because all of this is really kind of wigging him out. All of this is…a little too much to take. “What do you _mean _you don’t know?”

Harrington fidgets with his hands. Stares at his lap. “I…well, Dustin and I were out in the woods investigating shit. Because he’s bored, I think. And needs some adventure. I don’t know. And I really _did _trip. And I really _did _think it was like, a tree root or something. But when I looked around, there was nothing _there. _And then this scratch…it…it looked _terrible _hours later…and then I started having these…and then I started thinking that maybe some monster _did _manage to swipe at me. Cut me and inject some kind of poison or venom or something. Maybe it’s like…an invisible monster or something. _I don’t know._”

Billy presses the tips of his right middle finger and forefinger against his forehead because his head is beginning to throb. He stops pacing and turns back toward Harrington.

“Christ, Harrington. Do you know what happens when wounds get infected and dumbasses like you _ignore _them? The infection _spreads. _And this has been going on for _weeks. _That’s not _natural. _Sure, the wound is _sort of _improving, but everything still looks kind of nasty and you could…you could get, like, gangrene or something. I don’t know. I’m not a fucking doctor. Frankly, I don’t even understand how it’s been going on _this _long. It’s like…the infection started to spread rapidly and then it just…stopped. _Froze. _And I don’t know what the fuck that _means_. And even _Max _is worried about it. All those little brats are. Because apparently you told them you would go to the doctor if it didn’t get any better”—

“_Worse. _If it didn’t get any _worse._”—

“And we all _know _that you haven’t done that. And fucking _hell_, Steve, when that wound starts to get worse again…when that infection starts to spread…well, I’m just telling you right now that I’m not going to be held responsible when you’re rushed to the hospital so that they can _amputate _your foot.”

Harrington just stares, a quiver in his lip. “…amputate?”

The word echoes.

“Yes,” Billy insists, falling back onto the couch.

Harrington shakes his head. “But it hasn’t _gotten _worse since…and it’s not _going _to.”

Billy raises an eyebrow. “Care to explain the fever and the exhaustion, then?”

Sighing, Harrington gingerly unfolds his legs and lifts himself off the couch, swaying a little before straightening his shoulders and limping toward the dining room. “Want a drink?”

_Fuck yes._

Billy follows Harrington into the dining room and watches as the other teen opens up the china cabinet and pulls out a crystal decanter filled with dark amber liquid and two rocks glasses. He pours two fingers of the liquid in each glass and then offers one of them to Billy.

“Irish Whiskey okay?”

Billy simply wraps his fingers around the glass in answer, takes a sip, and lets some of the warmth slide down his throat.

Then he takes a seat at the dining room table, in his usual chair, and waits for Harrington to answer his question.

Harrington gulps down half of his whiskey before putting his glass down and leaning on the table, both palms pressed against the stone. “The exhaustion is just part of…It’s just nightmares. I’ve been having nightmares since all of this started. That’s nothing new either.”

Billy’s finger glides up and down his glass as he thinks about that.

Maybe that explains the exhaustion. _Maybe. _

But it definitely doesn’t explain the fever.

At least, Billy doesn’t _think _it does.

“And the nightmares…have they gotten worse since you…_tripped?_”

Harrington sips more of his whiskey. “Uh…yeah. I guess so.”

“How so?”

_Jesus. _It’s like pulling teeth. Not that Billy’s ever _done _that before. But the guy _could _make this easier. For both of their sakes.

“Uh…I don’t know.”

Great.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Billy bites out.

“Because…I…I don’t really _remember _most of them.”

Billy closes his eyes and lets more of the whiskey slide down his throat.

Then he leans forward, his elbows on the table and his hands grasping at his curls, and glares at the teen in front of him. “How the hell do you know they’ve gotten worse if you can’t even _remember _them?”

“Because,” Harrington says, eyes glossy and feverish, “I’m always _exhausted. _More than usual. And because…the memor…” The brunet frowns. Shakes his head. “I just know that…it just feels like my dreams are…_wrong_. And I think it’s because of this…_wound. _I don’t know, Billy. I just…”

Harrington gulps down the rest of his whiskey and pours himself more. “I don’t know.”

There’s something Harrington isn’t telling him. Billy knows that much. But he also feels completely out of his depth.

He doesn’t understand what he’s supposed to do here.

So he swigs down his own whiskey, grabs the decanter, and pours himself more as well. Then asks, “Do you have any idea what could’ve…_scratched…_you?”

Harrington stares at the decanter with unfocused eyes. “_Dustin’s _working theory is…well, he thinks maybe a werewolf…” He suddenly throws his head up and releases a wet cackle. “I _swear_, if that curly-haired little brat is right and I wolf out and eat a _deer_ or something, I’m going to be so fucking pissed…”

The words begin to slur and Harrington’s body begins to twitch and sway. As if in slow motion, he rocks forward and then back.

“Steve…”

Billy sprints from his chair in a panic, reaching Harrington just before the brunet’s eyes glaze over and he crumbles toward the floor. Billy catches Harrington mid-tumble and falls to the floor with him, softening the impact.

With Harrington’s head now in his lap, Billy sits there, stunned, his heartbeat a rapid hammer against his chest.

Harrington has…apparently fallen unconscious, brunet hair matted with sweat and pale skin wet and _hot_.

Well…

_Shit. _

Billy has no _idea _what he’s meant to do here.

He gently taps at Harrington’s cheek and his stomach tightens at the damp heat.

Fuck. _Fuck. _

In a _normal _situation, he imagines that the proper response to this kind of situation would be to either haul this guy to the ER or drop him into an ice cold bath to get the fever down. But Billy also _understands _now that Harrington’s leg wound isn’t _normal. _

What he _doesn’t _understand is how the rules change when you have to factor in monsters and unnatural _infections_.

Okay. _Think_, Hargrove. Quickly. Think _quickly._

Yes, _he _doesn’t have any experience with this monster shit, but…_Max and her friends do_.

Gently sliding out from underneath Harrington’s unconscious form, Billy moves toward the living room and rips open the drawer in the coffee table.

Pulling out Harrington’s walkie talkie, he turns the thing on with twitching fingers while attempting to steady his breathing and settle the rapid thumping in his chest. He’s watched Max use this thing often enough now. He can figure out how to communicate with the device too. Once he thinks he has the right channel, he radios out into the ether.

“Can anyone hear me? Hello?”

His call is met with crackling silence.

He tries again. 

"Hello? ...Hello? Can anyone hear...does anyone...uh..._copy me_?"

More crackling silence.

Of course.

Because it’s the middle of the night—2am—on a _Thursday—_on a _school_ night—and these are _kids_.

They likely won’t even be awake. And even if they are…what the hell are they going to be able to do that he can’t?

With shaking hands, Billy sets the walkie talkie onto the coffee table and stands up, trying to suppress all his leaking emotions. He tries to press down the _fear _and_ anger _and _helplessness _and_ loathing_ and_ desperation _and_ terror _and _need._

He…_he doesn’t know what to do here. _

An ice bath, he reminds himself suddenly. Harrington definitely needs an ice bath. To keep the fever down.

He’ll just have to drag the guy up the stairs and strip him down and…with a wave of determination, Billy springs to his feet.

And then a voice breaks through his frantic thoughts.

It’s…It’s _Max. _On the radio.

Billy grabs the walkie talkie and presses it to his ear as Max’s horrified voice calls out to him. “_Billy_?”

And then more voices come through in fluctuating waves. Choppy and confused and pressed down by the static but _there. _

“Wait. _Billy Hargrove_? Over.”

“Why…Are you using Steve’s walkie talkie? You haven’t finally killed him, right?”

“What’s wrong? It’s like…two in the morning. What…wait. Is this an_ actual_ code red this time? Do you copy me? What’s _wrong_? Over.”

Billy can’t make sense of anything that they’re saying, so he just snarls into the device.

“_Stop._”

And then he’s met with static-y silence again.

They’re _waiting_, he realizes.

Sighing, he calls out to them again. “I don’t know what a fucking _code red _is, but…Harrington…I didn’t _do _anything. He just…” Billy closes his eyes and lets his voice harden. “Look. Harrington just passed out. He definitely has a fever and his ankle is definitely…not looking great. Still. And I can’t take him to the ER because…I don’t think the wound is _normal._”

_Shit. _

It shouldn’t be this hard to talk to these brats.

Pursing his lips, Billy tries again.

“Steve’s unconscious and you guys know about monster shit.”

He’s met with unnerving quiet.

And then he hears a chorus of various promises. He makes out an "on my way" and a "just have to wake up Jonathan for a ride" and an "I'm bringing Hopper" and stifles an incredulous laugh. Because these kids are up in the middle of the night on a school night. Because these kids are on their way over to _help Harrington_ in the middle of the night on a school night. Because Billy’s actually _grateful _that these kids are…that he doesn’t have to deal with this alone.

He sets the walkie talkie back onto the coffee table before moving into the dining room, scooping Harrington up off the floor, and carrying the unconscious brunet, bridle-style, back into the living room.

Then he carefully...gently...sets the other teen on the couch before pacing toward the kitchen to fetch a cold, damp cloth to help keep the fever down while he waits.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Happy Pride! 
> 
> It's been awhile, so if you're still here--thank you! I really appreciate your reading and the giving of kudos. Also, while my anxiety always seems to prevent me from responding to them, the lovely comments that you leave often make my day. :)
> 
> Just saw that my last note mentioned something about four days of self-quarantine. Oof. Past me had absolutely no idea how crazy the world was going to get. Anyway, I hope that you're all safe and healthy.
> 
> Apologies if this chapter feels like a feverish, un-beta'd mess. I also imagine that I may need to update some of these tags soon. 
> 
> Speaking of, as always, please mind the tags and take care of yourselves. Now--and especially as we go forth.
> 
> Enjoy!

~~

Three weeks after Steve’s parents left him for the first time, the five-year-old woke to the sound of rustling fabric in the middle of the night. It had been like this for a week now. Ever since that glimpse of _It. _Even after Uncle Dan had reassured him and cuddled with him the night he confessed that he thought a monster in his closet would come steal him away. Even after the pinky promise and waking up feeling safe and warm and _protected_.

Steve still felt…spooked. And as a result, he had suddenly become a lighter sleeper and little noises—ones so _normal_ during the day—jolted him awake. The sound of a tree branch tapping at his window. The creak of a door. The soft patter of feet. The wind’s soft whine.

Tonight was clearly no different.

As he blinked the sleep away and turned his head toward the direction of the noise that woke him, he noticed a swaying shadow in the corner of his room near his desk and chair.

Waves of fear surged through him. His body began to tremble as he lifted his head completely off the pillow and tried to make out the shape of the shadow and figure out if what he was seeing was real.

The swaying shadow moved closer.

Startled, Steve opened his mouth to scream for help before a familiar voice rang out in the darkness. “Shhh…” Uncle Dan said softly. “It’s just me, kiddo.”

Steve sat up and leaned against the headboard while continuing to wipe sleep from his eyes. Blinking rapidly, he willed his still dream-dazed eyes to adjust to the dark quickly. He didn’t understand. “What…what are you doing in here? What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

“Just keeping watch for you, of course.” Steve could hear the smile in Uncle Dan’s voice and felt the mattress dip as the man took a seat at the end of the bed.

“That movie really did a number on you, huh kiddo? You’ve been having trouble sleeping all week. I told you, Stevie, monsters aren’t real. Nothing bad is coming for you. I promised, remember? I _pinky swore._”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, still a bit confused. Still a bit uncertain.

“Seems to me that the only time you got a good night’s sleep this past week was when I told you I’d stay in here to keep watch for you. Isn’t that right, kiddo?”

Steve’s brow furrowed. He supposed that was true. “Yeah.”

“I just want to make sure you feel safe.” Uncle Dan told him. “You _do_ feel safer when you know I’m watching over you, don’t you?”

The initial spark of fear and confusion began to melt away. It was just Uncle Dan. That wasn’t such a big deal, was it? Steve felt _safe_ with Uncle Dan. Of course he did. And not just that. When he was around Uncle Dan, he also felt _loved._

Steve was finally beginning to understand the bonds he’d witnessed between his friends and their parents. The ever-present affection that he’d only ever observed from a distance. How strange to finally _feel _it. How—well, kind of _wonderful_.

“Sure, I guess so.” Steve murmured as he slid back under the covers that had fallen away when Uncle Dan startled him. His head fell back onto the pillow. “G’night.”

Steve felt the mattress shift as Uncle Dan lifted himself off the bed and moved back across the room. “Goodnight, kiddo. You don’t have to worry about a thing, okay? Cause I’ll be here watching over you.”

Steve nodded gratefully before closing his eyes and drifting off.

When he opened his eyes again, several hours later, he searched for Uncle Dan’s swaying shadow in the corner of his room to make sure the man hadn’t left.

But this time, the shadow was _different_.

As his eyes settled, the shadow began to take shape.

He saw…an _elephant_?

No, that wasn’t right.

A tiger?

No…a _monster. _

A strange sort of stitched-up being. A living and breathing patchwork of sharp claws and glinting teeth and onyx eyes and thick trunk.

Some kind of animal version of _Frankenstein’s monster._

The long, thick trunk twisted toward him and Steve knew instantly that this monster had come for him.

That there was no escape.

The trunk would coil around him and squeeze until his blood burst from his veins and showered the walls in red. It would crush his brittle bones and drag his breathless, deflated body to glinting teeth that would grind him into ash. There would be nothing left. He would choke on his own screams, hopeless, helpless, _silent_, while this monster turned him to dust.

Steve starts to blink in blinding light, gasping for relief, but the darkness grips him. The lingering shadows wrap around him like iron-hot fingers. His eyes clamp shut. He can’t open them again. He _tries_. He really does. But the lids are too heavy and the pull of his dreams—of the unrelenting dark—is too strong.

Still, he manages to cling to this state of half-awareness for just a moment.

“Is he waking up? Steve? Can you hear me?” Yes. He can. He _thinks_.

Unless this is another dream.

“No, he’s definitely still out. Just…dreaming, I guess? See the way his eyes are moving behind his eyelids? He’s, like, in the REM stage. That’s deep sleep and vivid dreams or something. Right, Lucas? Lucas can tell you more about it if you want to know. I, uh, fell asleep that day.”

No, Steve’s not in some deep dream-state. He’s_ here_.

He tries to shake his head, to _tell_ them that he’s here, but his head spins and his chapped lips and dry mouth and wounded breath reject his efforts to make noise, let alone _words._

He tries to hang onto what the voices are saying, but the voices make little, _if any_, sense. Because it doesn’t _feel _like his eyes are moving. In truth, they feel completely frozen.

_Everything_ does.

Clearly, he’s having trouble moving anything _at all_. Can’t they see that?

Can’t they understand?

“Seems more like a nightmare to me.”

Steve’s limbs are sore, dead weight. Regardless of how much he’s trying to move a muscle—_any _muscle—be it in his hands or his fingers or toes or knees—his limbs refuse to even twitch. Taking a shuddering breath, he tries to summon the strength to curl a finger and frantic dread overwhelms him when the attempt fails.

“Yeah, well…”

Fear spreads across his chest as Steve realizes that he _is _stuck in a nightmare. Paralyzed. Alone. _Voiceless_—

“Stay with us, Harrington. Goddamnit.”

–Forced to dig up long-buried memories and relive a part of his life that he’d never thought he’d have to think about again.

Steve can still hear voices and movement around him even though it’s become muddled and indecipherable. He tries to release a sound, tries to communicate _something_, but the persistent darkness tightens its iron-hot hold and begins pulling him back into the abyss.

When the darkness has pulled him _too _deep, too close to what he’s spent so long trying to deny, he desperately tries to claw his way back to the surface, to _consciousness. _He can’t drift back into those dreams. Can’t plunge back into that forgotten reality.

“Where are his parents?”

_Not _reality, he tells himself. Reality is these voices around him. Reality is the indented cushions of the couch he’s lying on. Reality is his parents’ broken vase and the cuts and bruises and burns on Billy Hargrove’s skin. Reality is Steve’s empty house and his nail-infused bat. Reality is all those kids trying to fight _actual_ monsters and needing someone to look after them. And if he’s slipping away from _that_ reality, then he’s putting those kids in danger.

“Business trip.”

Steve needs to shake away the pain and the fear and the dread and the terrible ache flaring from his ankle, because he needs to be _awake _and _aware _and _prepared. _

He needs to keep the party _safe. _

“Do you know when they’re due back?”

If Steve can’t keep the party safe, then, well, there’s really no use for him, is there? If Steve can’t keep the party safe, then he’s more than just a disappointment to his parents and a failure at pretty much everything else. He’s _worthless. _

“Do I _look _like Harrington’s goddamn keeper?”

And he doesn’t want to be worthless anymore.

“Does anybody have a number where I might be able to reach them? …Do any of you at least know if they’re coming home for Christmas?”

Aching, Steve tries to reach out, tries to find an arm or a hand or _something _to hold onto. _Please don’t let me drift away, _he pleads silently while he listens to the noises bristle past and fade away. Of course, no one hears.

How could they?

So he floats in a timeless silence, suspended between the dream world full of horrid memories he’s tried to pretend aren’t real in an attempt to ignore the painful proof that he’s unlovable…of _monsters _terrorizing his mind and keeping him captive, and the world of Nancy and Jonathan and government conspiracies and Barb’s body in his pool and the party full of reckless, rambunctious teenagers in desperate need of comfort and protection and of absent parents and nail-infused bats and Max and Billy that he can’t seem to claw his way back to.

Sometimes, here and there, he gets the sense that his eyes are open and unseeing, but he can’t comprehend the how or why of that either.

“Are you gonna tell me what happened there, kid?”

Steve’s not sure how long he floats in this suspended, timeless space, but eventually some of the swirling emptiness wanes and tips.

“S’nothing. Just an accident.”

The rough, guarded words evoke a feeling of need and desperation that Steve only vaguely understands.

He thinks he’s…meant to do something. Meant to offer some kind of aid or...

“Well…do you mind if I take a look?”

_Billy._

The other teen’s name echoes in Steve’s head and clicks something into place.

Billy’s hurt. Billy _needs _him. Or, at least, Billy needs help and they have a deal. Because Steve made a proposition. A _promise. _

He’s supposed to be there to tend to the other teen’s wounds.

He’s supposed to _help. _

He can’t help if he’s unconscious. He can’t help if he’s stuck in…whatever the fuck this state of being is.

An internal argument brews within. A part of him condemns his thoughts of helplessness. Of weakness, really.

_You _should _be able to help. _

Yes, he knows.

_What good are you if you can’t even be around when the people you’ve promised to take care of need you?_

No good. No good at all. He _knows._

_Useless._

The knowledge that Billy is hurt and Steve can’t do what he’s promised rips at the brunet’s frail flesh, fierce and sharp and explosive, like a demodog’s daggered teeth shredding his exposed chest into bloody confetti.

_Worthless._

Desperately, Steve grasps onto this ache, onto his desire to climb back to reality and be _useful_. Eventually, though, his will frays and snaps like a taut rope bearing more weight than it can handle and he falls back to his dreams.

~~

When Uncle Dan’s stay came to an end, Steve found himself sitting by the pool in his swim trunks, with his legs dangling over the edge and his arms folded across his chest as he pouted in protest and glared at the sun’s reflection in the water.

“But I don’t want you to go.” He mumbled when he felt the man take a seat beside him and dip his own legs into the steaming pool.

Uncle Dan sighed. “Oh, kiddo. I don’t want to leave you either. But your parents are home. Aren’t you happy to have them back? You don’t need me in the way of that reunion. I know you all have so much to catch up on.”

Steve wanted to tell the man that he loved him _more _than he loved his parents. At least, he thought he did. He certainly knew now that his parents didn’t really love _him_. At least, he didn’t think they did. They didn’t build Lego towns with him or take him to the park or teach him how to ride a bike. They didn’t swim with him or plan picnics. They didn’t enjoy movie nights with him and they certainly didn’t care to watch his Saturday cartoons. They were cold and distant and _unreachable. _Not like Uncle Dan at all.

“I don’t want…I don’t care that they’re back.” Steve insisted. But he knew he did. He _had _missed them. He just wished they had missed him too. “Why can’t you stay?”

Uncle Dan wrapped an arm around Steve’s bare shoulder. “I’ve done what I came here to do. To watch over you. Now that your parents are home, you don’t need that anymore. Because _they’re_ here to do that. But, listen, I’ve already agreed to come stay with you the next time your parents go out of town for business. And the time after that, too. Your parents are very busy people, so rest assured that I will be back soon enough and that we will, once again, spend all the time in the world together.”

“Promise?” Steve’s gaze was still on the sun’s reflection in the water, but his shoulders straightened at the thought of the future.

Uncle Dan’s hand moved from Steve’s shoulder to his back. Steve shivered with a strange discomfort when the cold skin of the man’s palm slid down his spine and lingered on the small of his back. “_Pinky _swear.”

Briefly, Steve jolts up from his memory-fueled nightmare, but his heavy head quickly falls back onto the fluffed pillow beneath him. Every time he tries to focus on re-entering the real world, his entire _being _seems to pull against him.

With short, stinging breaths, Steve grapples through the insistent black and tries to grab at the noise around him, but his limbs barely even release a tremor.

He knows that…he is wet. Why…why is he wet?

His palms are damp. His forehead is damp. His chest is damp.

_Everything _is damp.

“So, he really told you all about the monsters, huh? Man, I_ knew_ that he was never going to be able to keep all of this a secret.”

No, not just damp. Not just wet. _Drenched. _

Steve doesn’t understand _why _he’s drenched, though, and that terrifies him a little.

He knows that there are people near him. Bickering. Whispering. Shuffling around.

But the voices feel distant. Muddled.

Almost as if the people around him have dropped him into his wretched swimming pool and are still holding his head under the water while they talk.

“Save that shit for when Steve wakes up, Mike.”

Steve can’t breathe, but he knows that he can’t open his mouth either.

“_If _he wakes up.”

Panic settles in as he realizes that, if he parts his lips even the slightest bit, he’ll breathe in water. And if he breathes in water, it’ll slide down his throat and fill his lungs until he drowns.

He’s consumed with illogical fear that waves of water will burst from his chest like a fleeing alien and he’ll die reeking of chlorine, with damp, messy hair plastered over his sallow, bruised skin.

With an irrational surge of terror, he thinks about dying with soaked, un-stylized hair. And he knows that it’s a ridiculous thought—that it’s utterly _stupid—insane—_but he _doesn’t want to die that way. _He cares about his hair. Can’t the muffled voices surrounding him understand that?

“Yeah, well, you can give him all the shit you want to then. Right now, we have more important things to focus on. You know, like actually figuring out what the fuck is going on.”

Steve can feel a faint sensation of threaded fabric dabbing at his forehead. At his cheeks.

Is he…_not _drowning?

No, he’s lying down. He thinks he can feel his couch’s permanently-indented cushions underneath him. Maybe they’ve pulled him out of the pool.

Maybe they’re drying him off with a towel.

“What Dustin _means_ to say is straighten out your priorities, asshole.”

But Steve doesn’t really understand why they wouldn’t dry him off _outside_ if he’s so wet. His parents certainly wouldn’t like it if they knew he’d gotten pool water all over the living room. All over the couch.

“Max.”

If they’re drying him off, maybe they’ll take pity on him and blow-dry his matted hair too so that he doesn’t die looking like a drowned rat.

“What, Lucas? Steve’s like, _dying _or something, and Mike’s being an”—

He would really like to have a decent-looking corpse if it’s not too much to ask.

“_Max_.”

_It _is _a stupid thing to ask_, a voice within insists. _It’s a damn stupid thing to worry over._

“He’s not dying, okay? Something is bound to turn up in our research.”

_How shallow _are_ you, anyway? Thinking of your hair when the party needs you to watch over them—when _Max _needs you—when _Billy’s hurt_? _

“Scouring all your Dungeons and Dragons lore for answers is _not _research, dipshit.”

Have they dragged him back out to the pool? Because he really does think he might be drowning now. Enduring a dreadfully and excruciatingly_ slow_ drowning.

Water clogs his lungs and he coughs and sputters.

Do they not notice?

_Even if they _have _noticed, so what? You don’t deserve their help—and _still_, they’re sticking around. You’ve done this to yourself._

You’re _supposed to be the babysitter, aren’t you? And now all those kids have to watch over _you. _How incompetent can you be? How _pathetic _can you be?_

Steve’s eyes begin to sting and his face swells with a burning wetness. He’s already lost touch of the rest of the world, and as the pain takes hold, as the vicious throb in his ankle flares, he begins to lose touch of time again. To lose touch of himself. That is, if he even had a sense of any of that before.

Maybe he didn’t.

Maybe he _doesn’t_.

“Max, we have to go home.”

How long does it take to drown?

“But I don’t want to.”

_I don’t want you to go either, _Steve wants to shout.

But he can’t even muster up an audible groan.

All he can do is wade through this black abyss and listen and yearn and dread.

_It’s not safe there. _

“Well. Good for you. We still have to go home.”

_Please don’t leave me here. _He thinks he might go crazy if all the voices fade away. He thinks he might go crazy if he gets pulled into his memory-fueled dreams and there’s nothing waiting for him in this liminal space when he finally manages to climb his way back here again.

“Are we coming back later? Tonight? Tomorrow? …until we figure this out?”

_Please don’t leave me to drown. _

“Sure.”

_Please don’t leave me alone in this empty house._

Steve wills his body to thrash around, to let them know that he’s _here _and that he needs…he needs to wake up. _Fully_ wake up. Not this half-aware, half-conscious bullshit.

Can’t they help him do that? Bring him back to the world? Help him be alert—conscious—_aware_?

Of course they would’ve already done that if they could, right?

They wouldn’t just leave him forever stuck in his boundless dreamscapes for the monsters waiting in the shadows to prey on, right?

_You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington._

“There’s something…_foreign._”

They wouldn’t just abandon him to these nightmares—these _memories _he thought he’d managed to bury deep within himself.

That he thought he’d managed to ignore—to _forget. _

He knows the truth now. He _gets it_.

Memories _always _resurface.

“What? What the hell do you mean?”

_You’re an absolute idiot._

“_Inside_. There’s something…foreign…_inside_ him. A piece. Tethered.”

_You don’t deserve their help._

“Um, English please?”

_You’ve already failed them, haven’t you? Why should they help you?_

“Just sit down, shut the fuck up, and let El talk. If you can’t keep up then I’ll translate for you when she’s done, okay?”

“Jesus, Max. You don’t have to bite my head off, you know.”

He’s slipping, Steve _knows_ he is, and that petrifies him. He can’t go back down.

He can’t go back _there. _

He’s not sure why—it’s incomprehensible, really—but the other nightmares have faded away. Barb’s corpse floating in his pool. The frightening images that Will and El and Nancy have painted of the Upside Down. The lab. The endless, suffocating tunnels. The Demogorgon. The demodogs. All the monsters haunting his mind have slowly whittled away, leaving only one.

He can barely even _remember _the other nightmares. The other monsters.

The one that’s left lurks in the farthest corners of his mind and waits.

He doesn’t understand what, exactly, it’s waiting for, but he knows that it’s always there.

Watching.

He hasn’t managed to get a good look at it yet. He only ever seems to glimpse this weird, patched-up, animalistic version of Frankenstein’s monster when his dreams take him to the past. Still, that alone makes him feel weak and vulnerable and _exposed. _

And he knows that he _can’t _go back there.

He needs to be _here._

“Can you get it out? _El_? Can you _get it out_?”

Steve thinks he might be crying, but he can’t really tell. Maybe they’ve just thrown him back into the pool. Maybe they’ve plunged him into a bathtub.

Wherever he is, he’s soaking wet. He thinks he hears someone say he’s burning up, but it doesn’t make any sense. An icy cold seeps into his bones.

_You’re bullshit._

He knows. He _knows _he is.

~~

Four days before Steve’s sixth birthday, his parents left for a two-month business trip. Uncle Dan came to stay with him again. To take care of him. And while Steve felt hurt that his parents couldn’t delay their trip until _after_ his birthday, and while he felt even _worse _when neither of them bothered to call _on _his birthday, he was ecstatic to have Uncle Dan around again. Because he had missed the man.

On his birthday, Uncle Dan let him eat a slice of chocolate cake for breakfast and took him to the cinema to see a movie that his teacher had insisted was only for _teenagers_.

Afterward, the man let Steve carry his large, half-finished bucket of buttery popcorn around the park and let the boy attempt to toss the popped kernels into Uncle Dan’s mouth. Every time Steve succeeded, the man leaned forward and ruffled his hair.

Uncle Dan took him to his favorite restaurant and let him order more food than he could possibly eat for dinner and didn’t seem at all fussed when Steve asked if they could box up the leftovers and take them home.

Not like his mother, who had glanced down at him when he had asked her the same question several months ago and said, “Truly, Steven, not finishing what’s on your plate is enough of an embarrassment. If you can’t eat all of the food that you ordered and we paid for while enjoying this privilege of fine dining that we’re affording you, then, well, I don’t even know why we bother taking you out at all.”

Bewildered, Steve had looked to his father for guidance. The man had simply fixed him with a steely gaze, shrugged, and said, “We’ve discussed this childish behavior before, Steven,” before sipping his coffee and leaning back in his chair.

Steve had shriveled at the scolding and couldn’t bring himself to push back or apologize for ordering too much. He had felt so hungry before. And he had thought that, if he didn’t finish, he could take what was left home for the next time his parents came home late and forgot about feeding him dinner at all.

According to his mother, he was still too young to be anything but a nuisance in the kitchen, but not knowing how to prepare his own food made the evenings his parents dined out without him all the more frustrating. He always dreaded the promised pangs of his stomach. He always hated feeling so alone and so _empty. _

Steve had tears in his eyes when his mother told their server to take his plate away.

With Uncle Dan, it was different. He was never alone. He never went hungry. He never felt _empty. _With Uncle Dan’s assistance, he was even starting to learn how to prepare simple meals. Scrambled eggs. Cinnamon toast. Chili. Sloppy Joes. Spaghetti. They even baked double-chocolate chip cookies once.

When they arrived home after an entire day of birthday fun, Uncle Dan nudged Steve toward the living room while he veered toward the kitchen. He looked down at Steve with twinkling green eyes. “Let me get you a nice plate and a cold glass of milk for this amazing birthday cake they gave you, okay? Then I’ll meet you in the living room and we can play some Legos. We can put on whatever you want in the background. Just pick a tape from that fancy movie library your parents have.”

Steve felt a certain amount of awe at the mere idea of this. “You mean…you’ll let me eat cake in the _living room_?”

“Well, it’s your birthday, isn’t it? That’s a fine way to end it, right?”

“And you’re going to continue playing with me even though we’ve been out _all day_?” His parents never would have done the same.

“Of course I am.”

“And…we can watch _another _movie even though you just took me to the _cinema_?”

Steve couldn’t seem to keep the absolute wonder out of his tone.

“Anything for you, kiddo.”

Steve felt his chest heave with excitement. Giddy, he stumbled toward the living room. His parents may not have called today—his parents may have _forgotten _today—but this was still turning out to be the best birthday he’d ever had.

Halfway through his cake, though, Steve’s head got a little fuzzy and his limbs became strange weights.

Unable to keep his grip on the Lego he was holding, it dropped to the floor, toppling over the school they had just built as his head began to sag.

Steve felt a kind of weird that he had never felt before. He didn’t understand it.

“What’s wrong, Stevie?”

“I’m a…feel kin’ fu’ny.” He couldn’t quite get the words out, his tongue too thick and dry. His entire _mouth_ felt too dry.

Confused, he searched gentle green eyes for some answers as to what might be wrong with him. He’d _never_ felt like this.

An unfamiliar wave of nausea sparked in his gut and lingered. He didn’t get it. Was he sick? Was this the _food poisoning_ illness that he’d heard his parents discuss a week before they left again? What was happening?

Was this his punishment for bringing home leftovers?

Uncle Dan swept a hand over Steve’s forehead, brushing the boy’s dark, messy bangs out of his eyes. “Oh, kiddo. You’re wiped out.” The man explained. “We had a big day today. We really should get you tucked in soon.”

Steve’s eyebrows crinkled with more confusion. He hadn’t felt tired all that long ago. In fact, he had been buzzing with energy. How could this fatigue come on so quickly? How could he feel so _weird _so quickly?

But Uncle Dan was right. They _had _had a big day.

Steve tried to nod, but in his grogginess, he couldn’t seem to lift his chin from his chest once the weight of the act pulled his head down.

Uncle Dan let out a soft sigh. “Okay, my special boy. Time for bed. We can clean this up in the morning.”

“K’y…” Head still bowed, Steve struggled to get to his feet, legs heavy and limp.

The man kneeling in front of him gave him a light chuckle. “Oh, kiddo. Here, I got you.”

Uncle Dan swept Steve into his arms and stood up, staring down at the boy with a peculiar calm. “You look like you’ll be out any second. How about I carry you up to bed? How does that sound? Would you like that?”

Steve blinked owlishly and his eyebrows crinkled with jumbled thought. He was certain he wouldn’t get up to his bed otherwise. He tried to nod again, but couldn’t manage it.

“’K’y…”

He tried to smile at Uncle Dan for the offer---for the attention—for _caring_—but he couldn’t manage that either.

Instead, Steve drifted in and out, watching the world through a fog as Uncle Dan set him onto his bed and pulled his covers up. Steve was about to tell Uncle Dan good night, because he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep fluttering his eyes open, when he felt a finger brush his lips and push into his mouth.

Startled, he tried to turn his head, but the finger latched to his inner lip and moved with him. He must have made some noise of protest because he heard Uncle Dan’s gentle coo of reassurance, “shh, it’s okay, Stevie.”

Still frightened and disoriented, Steve tried to grab at the man’s wrist and pull the offending finger away from his mouth, but he couldn’t even muster up the energy to lift his arm from the bed.

One finger became two.

Slowly, the unwelcome appendages slipped deeper, coaxing his teeth apart, sliding against his tongue, and inching toward the back of his mouth.

Head swimming with confusion and fatigue and a strange, horrible feeling he couldn’t identify, Steve tried again to grab at the man’s wrist and failed.

The fingers remained, pressing against the boy’s swollen tongue.

Even in his hazy state, Steve knew that something was wrong. That _this _was wrong.

At least, he thought it was.

No one had ever done this before and it certainly didn’t _feel _right, and _he _certainly didn’t feel right, so this_ had _to be wrong.

His panic must have shown on his face, because Uncle Dan’s other hand came up to his head, fingers threading through his hair and grazing against his scalp in the way that someone might scratch a puppy. “It’s okay, kiddo. Just relax.”

Steve still didn’t really understand, but the command prickled at his skin. He knew that he didn’t want to relax.

He also knew that he couldn’t hold onto consciousness much longer.

On the verge of falling asleep, eyelids shuttering like cement and body going slack, he heard Uncle Dan’s continued murmurs. The fingers threaded through his hair fell away. After a rustle of fabric, the man’s huffs of breath quickened.

The pace of the Uncle Dan’s breathing moved from rhythmic to erratic.

“You’re okay, Stevie.”

Steve didn’t feel okay. He felt limp and woozy and distant and scared.

And he was so _tired. _

“We had a long day. It’s okay to be so exhausted. It’s okay to drift off. I’m here for you, my special boy. I’m going to watch over you, okay?”

Uncle Dan’s words were breathy and stunted and _wrong-sounding._

“It must feel so weird to you—having someone…care for you. Having someone love you and want to protect you. I’m…so…sorry that it…feels weird, kiddo. It shouldn’t…I _promise _you that it shouldn’t. I’m so sorry that, because of your parents, you don’t…understand affection. But I’m going to change that…okay? I already have a little, haven’t I? It’s okay, Stevie. Everything is going to be alright.”

Abruptly, the fingers in Steve’s mouth smoothed out and sharpened into long, piercing tiger claws.

Bleary and dazed, the distinct shift took Steve a moment to process. It took him a moment to recognize and differentiate one monster from another.

No, there was only _one _monster.

And it wasn’t a Demogorgon or a demodog or whatever the hell nightmare fodder the Upside Down had spouted out this time.

It was this stitched-up animalistic…_chimera_, his mind supplied suddenly.

Was that it?

_Chimera_?

Dustin used that name for some kind of creature once… Did Steve finally understand the monster haunting the edges of his dreamt memories? Did he finally understand this strange combination of elephant and rhino and tiger and…_was _chimera the answer?

_Chimera_…Dustin had said…a goat and a lion hybrid, hadn’t he? That wasn’t…that wasn’t _this. _So, what the hell _was _this thing?

Steve couldn’t see the monster. He could only feel it.

Petrified, he waited with baited breath, steeling himself for the tip of one of the sharpened claws in his mouth to penetrate his tongue. He knew that the claws would slice straight through his gums—straight through his jaw. Steve would choke on his own saliva-thinned blood as it gushed from his lips and stained his sheets crimson, while his soundless, panting screams reverberated off the walls of his empty house.

Steve chokes awake violently, spit spewing from his lips and glassy brown eyes flying open as he tumbles sideways and begins to fall from the couch he’s been sleeping on. A fuzzy silhouette moves toward him and grabs hold of his torso and legs before he hits the floor, pushing him back onto the cushions.

With great effort, the brunet scrambles away from the shadow now towering over him.

Is this another nightmare?

Or has this monster _actually _come for him?

Delirious with pain and alarm and confusion, Steve’s heaving wheezes and hammering chest pulse at his ears, drowning out the rest of the world.

His ankle _throbs. _

The ache is both familiar and unwelcome and Steve wonders, with sudden dread, if what he’s feeling is what he’s heard other people refer to as phantom pain.

Hargrove had spoken of amputation…

They didn’t…they didn’t have to resort to that, did they?

Anxiously, he feels for his right leg. His ankle. His foot. His movements are frenzied and desperate. A small rush of relief comes when his fingertips find the body parts in question still attached to the rest of him. His foot isn’t gone. His _leg _isn’t gone.

Nobody amputated yet.

That knowledge still doesn’t calm his short, panicked breaths or the pounding in his ears or the sharp sting in his chest. Underneath the overwhelming terror, though, Steve begins to register soft but firm murmurs.

Someone is here with him.

Not a monster. A _person. _

_Concentrate_, Steve tells himself.

When his breathing begins to slow and the blurred world around him finally comes into focus, Steve finds himself curled up at one end of the couch, huddled in the corner, where the armrest and the back of the couch meet.

His arms cradle his shins and he gazes around the room from over the top of his knees.

It takes him another minute of drinking in the waking world to register where and who the soft yet firm murmurs are coming from.

Billy Hargrove sits at the edge of the coffee table, near the other end of the couch. The raging storm in the blond’s blue eyes belie his quiet, careful tone. “Just breathe, Harrington. _In. Out. _Everything is fine. Just breathe. All you gotta do is focus on that, okay? Just _in _and _out._”

Once Billy seems to realize that Steve finally understands where he is, the teen pauses. For a brief second, the corners of Billy’s lips turn up slightly. The second doesn’t last. “Hey.”

Steve tries to echo the greeting, but all that comes out is a hoarse rasping.

Reaching for the glass of water sitting on the coffee table, the blond wraps it in a tight grip, shifts a little closer to Steve, and extends his hand toward the brunet.

With shaky fingers, Steve accepts the offered glass, even though it feels like it could slip from his own quivering grip any second, and sips at the water, savoring the soothing cold. He looks up at Billy and nods awkwardly in thanks, because he’s really not sure what else to do.

In response, Billy fidgets, clearly uncomfortable, his right hand moving up to the cigarette tucked behind his right ear.

The blond’s fingers twirl the white cylinder while his blue eyes gaze at it with overstated intensity. Like the guy’s trying to convince himself that the slender stick in his hand is the most interesting thing in the world. 

Steve watches Billy twirl the cigarette around for several moments before studying the state of the other teen. From what Steve can glimpse, Hargrove’s left hand, currently unwrapped, looks _better_. The webbed burn and the angry colors that once spread across Hargrove’s palm and fingers have paled in their intensity. Still, Steve makes a mental note to get a closer look at that and tend to it soon. To make sure it’s really okay.

All the other wounds that Steve’s recently treated seem to have faded too.

But beneath the shadow of blond curls, Steve also glimpses purpled skin around Billy’s right eye and temple.

That’s_ new_.

“You’re hurt,” he wheezes, eyes welling with the sting of guilt and shame.

Billy releases a low snort. “Astute observation from the guy who ignored the severity of his own wound until he _fainted._”

Steve blinks and Billy sighs.

“Anyway,” the blond continues, “We got it out. Well, _El _did. But I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that it was a team effort. Your gang of brats really came through for you.”

Steve isn’t really listening. His eyes stay fixed on the bruise framing Billy’s eye. Yes, it’s _definitely_ new, but it also has to be a couple days old.

“Your ankle’s still going to be a little sore for a while, obviously, but at least it’s actually _healing _now. And you’re still coming down from a pretty high fever, so…what?”

“I’m—I’m sorry. Do you…do you need some ice?” Steve asks, a little faintly, still not processing Billy’s words.

With an aggressive head shake, Billy fixes Steve with a stiff stare. “I’m _fine_.”

The words have a sharp edge to them. A sort of determined grit. Steve tries to decipher the meaning behind them as his own words tumble out of his mouth like a whining croak. “But we have a deal and I wasn’t”—

Billy rolls his eyes and leans forward, his elbows resting on the tops of his bent knees. “Jesus Christ, Harrington. Give yourself a minute to breathe, okay? Yeah, I’m hurt.” Billy shrugs in an obvious attempt at nonchalance even as his tone hardens. “So, what? It’s not like I’m not _used to it_. And, if you haven’t noticed, I’m not the one who fell unconscious.”

Wincing at the heat of the words, Steve’s gaze drops to his knees. His shoulders hunch as he struggles to articulate his frantic desire to apologize. “But I wasn’t…you were…we weren’t…and you’re _here…_and I’m…”

“Cut the savior shit, okay? I’ve told you before that I didn’t need it—and I _definitely _don’t need the pity or charity. That’s not—this is a _part of our deal_, dumbass.” Billy stands and moves toward the middle of the room. He tucks the cigarette he’s been holding back behind his right ear, crosses his arms, and lets his eyes wander around the living room while Steve just gapes at him with an open mouth. “God forbid we focus on _you _for a fucking second, what with your creepy, supernatural leg wound and your magical _nightmares_.”

Steve, _still _not truly processing Billy’s words, stiffens. He’s ready to argue, but the retort lodges in his throat, forcing him to take another sip of water.

His head aches. His ankle aches. _Everything _aches. And he’s only been awake for a few minutes. The_ least _Hargrove could do is be _nice _about this.

Steve watches as Billy uncrosses his arms, stuffs his hands in his jean pockets, and studies the various pictures propped atop the dark oak of the fireplace’s mantle. They’re landscapes, mostly.

Steve’s parents have never cared for family photos, but his mother _loves _landscapes.

On the rare occasions when his parents return from their travels, his mother returns with rolls of film. When she finally gets the film developed, she spreads the photographs out on the dining room table and explains each one to Steve with a voice he finds strange and unfamiliar because of its affection and warmth.

Steve wonders what Hargrove thinks of the photos and the absence of, well, _people _in them. The realization that this gives the blond another lens into Steve’s pathetic existence makes the brunet squirm. Billy doesn’t comment on the photos or even notice Steve’s squirming. Or, if he does, he doesn’t say anything about it.

His blue eyes move away from the pictures on the mantle and find Steve’s again. “Even Wheeler and Byers and the _goddamn police chief _were here looking after you, you know.”

Steve’s chest tightens and his eyes burn at the hint of jealousy in Billy’s voice.

“Who’s…uh…who’s here now?”

“Just me and Max,” Billy says. Then he tilts his head almost ruefully. “Well, she…uh…was. I actually sent her out for videos and food before everything closes. And I’m sure that curly-haired twerp will be bouncing in here like a fucking wired jackrabbit once he hears you’re finally awake.”

_Finally._

“What…time is it?” Steve asks as his eyebrows scrunch in thought. If he’s being honest, he’s not really sure he wants to know.

Billy’s stony face softens, just a touch, when he says, “try day.”

Steve feels the blood drain from his face and he sways a little. “…What?”

“You might want to ask what _day _it is.” Billy clarifies, like he thinks _that’s _the problem.

“What…what _day_…”

“Also, can you please try to focus your breathing again? And just lie back down if you feel dizzy or something. The last thing I need is you passing out on me. Again.”

“Did I—did I miss the _weekend_?” Steve groans a little, still stuck on the word _days_. “Did I fall unconscious and _actually _miss the _only _three days of the week worth their weight in…Oh, god, don’t tell me we have school tomorrow.”

Billy’s lips twitch. “No school tomorrow.” He pauses, like he’s not sure how to continue. “We’re on winter break.”

Steve stares—_gapes—_and a chill spreads through his veins. “I didn’t…I didn’t miss _Christmas_, did I? Cause I have gifts to give and…”

Steve trails off, anxious and uncertain.

Billy pulls his lighter from his left pocket and sparks a flame. Intently, he watches the small burst of red and blue before letting the light go out and glancing back at Steve. The brunet can see some of the cracks beneath Billy’s guarded face and his carefully blank blue eyes.

It pierces at Steve’s chest to know that this expression is _practiced _and _conditioned. _To know that this expression is probably the result of years of being beaten down until the only option for survival was to harden and create walls and lash out. To know that, for Billy, this mask is _normal _and _necessary _and difficult to remove.

The blond shifts from one foot to another and back again before dropping his gaze back to his lighter. “Uh, no," Billy sighs. "But…Happy Christmas Eve, I guess?”

_Fuck. _

“Happy Christmas Eve,” Steve echoes, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

He wants to ask if the kids are okay. He wants to ask if _Max_ is okay. He wants to ask if _Billy_ is okay, even though he already knows the answer to that.

And he wants to ask why Billy and Max are _still here_. On _Christmas Eve_.

Billy must sense the need in Steve’s eyes because he says, “The kids held, like, _vigil _for you throughout the weekend. None of them wanted to go home. They’re bound to be here later, making absolute menaces of themselves. Don’t know if any of them will manage to sneak off tomorrow, though.”

Abruptly, another thought filters through Steve’s still hazy, muddled mess of a mind. He looks down at the loose-fitting shirt and the sweats that he had _not _collapsed in and, with a note of uncontained horror, asks, “If it’s been days…did I…I didn’t, uh…” _I didn’t piss myself, did I? _

Steve can’t bring himself to say the words out loud, but the question is clear.

Billy, looking almost as uncomfortable as Steve feels, raises his right hand to his head and presses his fingertips against his already-bruised temple. “You had, uh, _moments _of semi-awareness. We managed to get you to your feet and help you take care of…needs. Except, uh, except for the first time. Mrs. Byers washed your clothes. And then those clothes got drenched in sweat, so... She washed those too. Those clothes are in your laundry room.”

Steve flushes with embarrassment. Trying to swallow down the nausea and push away his cluttered thoughts and the swirling sense of violation, Steve nods and slowly starts to uncurl himself. He shouldn’t feel violated. They couldn’t help it. They _had _to do it.

He should be thankful that he didn’t wake up having completely soiled himself _and _the couch. He should be thankful that he doesn’t have to worry about trying to eradicate the smell or explain the lingering stench to his parents when they finally come home.

“Why are…why are you and Max still here? It’s Christmas Eve.”

Billy raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with the question. “Because you couldn’t be left alone.” The “idiot” may go unspoken, but Steve _definitely_ still hears it. “Hopper and Mrs. Byers had to work and Max and I were in the best position to keep watch.”

_You _do_ feel safer when you know I’m watching over you, don’t you?_

“But shouldn’t you be home? For the holiday?”

Billy gives Steve a strange look and Steve immediately trips over a bumbling apology. “I’m sorry. Do you celebrate Hanukkah? Or something else? Or, uh, nothing? Cause I didn’t mean to just assume that you would celebrate Christmas…I just…I don’t want to be the reason that you guys aren’t with your family on a holiday if you…if you need to be. Your parents are…they’re not going to…are you sure it’s okay that you’re here? Cause you really don’t have to be here if it’s not okay.” Steve _really _doesn’t want to be the reason that _more _bruises bloom on Billy’s skin.

_It’s safer here_, Steve reminds himself. _Billy and Max _should _be here. _

Billy walks to the other end of the couch and leans against the armrest across from Steve. When he meets Steve’s gaze again, there’s an odd glint behind his blue eyes. Instead of responding to Steve’s concerns, he redirects the conversation. “You know, speaking of parents, Mrs. Byers and Chief Hopper were asking for a number where they might be able to reach yours while they’re away on their _business trip_.”

The way Billy emphasizes those last two words has Steve flushing even more and averting his eyes.

“No service there,” he whispers. 

Steve can feel Billy’s eyes boring into him, inquisitive and penetrating. The words that follow are sour with disbelief. “Sure. Of course_. _They also wanted to know when your parents might be coming home.”

Steve stares at his glass of water. Refuses to look up.

“The thought was that they’d _surely _be home for Christmas.”

Steve can still feel Billy searching—_dissecting _him, and he squirms under the scrutiny and tries to resist the urge to curl into himself again.

“But you know, I can’t help but notice that they’re still not around.”

Gingerly, Steve sets the glass of water back onto the coffee table. “They _are _on a trip. They’re just…” Steve pauses, a strange terror suddenly washing over him as he finally registers something that Billy said earlier in their conversation. “Wait. _Wait a second. _El got _what _out? And what the hell do you mean by _magical nightmares_?”


End file.
